


"Hey, Mr. Stark..."

by WindingStair



Series: Hey, Mr. Stark [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst interspersed with fluff and a happy ending, BAMF Harley Keener, BAMF Peter Parker, Bisexual Peter Parker, Bisexual Tony Stark, Brief Discussion of Homophobia, Brief discussions of grief and death, Brief mention of Spider-Man witnessing and thwarting attempted sexual assault, Civil War 2.0 looming on the horizon, Endgame fix-it then wreck-it then fix-it, Gay Harley Keener, Harley Keener as Iron Lad, Harley Keener is 100 percent That Bitch, Iron Dad and Iron Sons, M/M, Pepper Remarried a Marine Biologist, Peter is the next Iron Man but Harley is the Stark heir, Protective Harley Keener, Protective Peter Parker, Strained Relationships, The author thinks they're funnier than they are, Tony ships Parkner hardcore, both vaguely sexual and supremely suggestive content, far from home compliant, parkner, reverse slow burn, story telling, warning severe parkner pining may cause heartburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindingStair/pseuds/WindingStair
Summary: Endgame fix-it starring Iron Dad and Iron Sons, featuring the getting-together, break-up, and reunion of Peter and Harley.Tony is resurrected eight years after defeating Thanos to find Pepper is remarried, and Harley and Peterhadbeen engaged; but now, Peter lives alone in Queens while Harley continues shadowing Pepper in Malibu to prepare to take over Stark Industries. Something has been impacting Peter’s abilitiesandoutlook enough to worry the other Avengers, who have found themselves divided yet again over the new Accords, and proposed restrictions on Enhanced Individuals’ (or, E.I.s) freedom. Meanwhile, the loss of the Infinity Stones has begun to shake their reality. Can Tony figure out how to help Peter save both his relationshipandhimself? And maybe the world, while he's at it? Probably: he's Tony Stark, after all.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Tony Stark, Happy Hogan/May Parker (Spider-Man), Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Harry Osborn (mentioned), Harley Keener/Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Wade Wilson
Series: Hey, Mr. Stark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819318
Comments: 35
Kudos: 66





	1. Please don't eat me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange, Banner, and Rhodey come together to bring back their fallen comrade. But somebody left the window open and a _Spider_ got in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! I hope you're excited for my little dose of plotty Parkner, because I've had a blast writing it!
> 
> This story is going to bounce back-and-forth between the primary story-line in the present-day, and the past. See, Peter regales Tony with tales of his missing years and his story-telling skills are _so immersive_ ~~jk~~ that the narrative jumps back in time on occasion. Peter is just that good. I do my best to keep everything clear through context. <3

“Wait.” Bruce blinked four times to clear his head. “You’re telling me that _Tony Stark_ isn’t dead, he’s… _phased_? What, like _Vision?_ ” he turned to Rhodey and asked, “Does that mean _Vision_ is alive, too?”

Rhodey gestured pointedly at Strange. “I don’t know, man. Please direct all questions to the wizard.”

Strange’s mouth tightened. “Master of the mystic arts, actually.”

“So sorry,” Rhodey muttered, not remotely sorry. The three Avengers were standing in the Sanctum: Strange was sipping tea that hadn't been there just seconds ago, Rhodey was doing his best to ignore the books that he was pretty sure were talking shit about him, while Bruce fidgeted—likely still wracked with nerves from his last visit to NYC which, well, _did not go so great_. Let’s just say, he’s been actively avoiding the green life since.

“Tony Stark bore the Soul Stone,” Strange explained slowly… for the seventeenth time. “The normal rules may not apply.”

“So…” Bruce rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. “You’re telling me that, what, Tolkien-rules apply here? That he’s like a ring-bearer or some crap and now he’s gone into the West but he might be able to come back?”

“Dude,” Rhodey said. “We did not read the same books.”

Strange tilted his head thoughtfully and said, “I prefer Le Guin.”

“You’re both nuts,” Rhodey said. After a moment, he added, “This is some Philip K. Dick shit if anything.”

“No,” Bruce insisted. “Maybe if it wasn’t his _body_ that was—“ He stopped suddenly and turned back to strange. “Wait, we _cremated_ his body!”

Strange stared at Bruce for a moment, as if confused how someone so smart could say something so stupid. “And?”

Bruce turned to Rhodey and made a helpless gesture, but Rhodey just sighed. “Look,” Rhodey said. “Let’s assume for the sake of argument that it _is_ possible. Would Tony even _want_ to come back?”

“What, his wife remarried and now you think he’s not gonna want to live?” Bruce asked. “That’s a little… harsh, no?”

Rhodey held up his hands defensively. “I’ve seen that season of Buffy, that’s all I’m saying.”

Strange cleared his throat. “I have been preparing for this contingency for some time. Earth became a target once the rest of the universe recognized the challenge posed by the Avengers. Now that the mad titan was _defeated_ on Earth, it is only going to get _worse._ Vision is gone, Steve Rogers is, pragmatically speaking, gone; Scarlet Witch is MIA, Tony Stark is gone, Thor is wherever the hell Thor is. Earth is—“

“—and Nat,” Bruce inserted.

Strange blinked at him. “Yeah. Sure. She was a real deterrent for the forces of chaos.” Before Bruce could let out the venomous retort waiting in the back of his now green-tinted throat, Strange continued, “We need reinforcements. The absence left by the stones has barely _begun_ to be felt. Tony Stark may well be the best option to defend our reality.”

Bruce tilted his head in acquiescence. “Maybe he’ll be able to talk some sense back into Peter.”

Rhodey shot Bruce a chastising look. “That was an accident, man. You’re gonna tell me _you_ of all people are gonna hold that against him? Seriously?”

Before Bruce could retort, Strange held up his hands. “It cannot be denied that Parker is in danger of becoming unstable, and, if what I fear is true—“ He gave a wry smile, “—and unfortunately, it usually _is:_ he won’t be the last.” He looked pointedly at Bruce and added, “He may not have been the _first._ ”

“He should be here,” Rhodey said, biting at his thumb. “Keener, too.”

Strange shook his head. “This process is too delicate to be upset by their after-school special. And,” he admitted with a sigh, “Parker seems more affected by whatever it is that is trying to take advantage of the Infinity Stones’ absence. Given that we think bringing back Stark is our best chance at defending this reality _against_ this yet-to-be-identified threat, we can’t be certain that Parker won’t try to _stop_ us.”

“He loved Tony,” Rhodey said. “I don’t care what’s going on with him, he would never—“

“—not if he were in control, no,” Bruce said sadly. “But he might not be. Peter would want Tony back— _needs_ him back. So let’s bring him back.”

Rhodey sighed. “Look. Tony is… was… my best friend. I want him back, I do. But we need to think seriously about the cost here.”

“Cost?” Bruce asked, hugging his arms to his chest nervously. “What kinda cost?”

“There’s always a cost with this shit, man.”

“This isn’t a movie,” Strange reminded him. He tilted his head and admitted, “Though, there is a chance he may return craving human flesh,” Strange admitted with a blithe tone that was, frankly, disturbing. 

“What?” Bruce shrieked. “How _much_ of a chance?”

“Negligible,” Strange assured him. “Less than ten percent.”

“How _much_ less?”

“Negligibly less.”

Rhodey covered his face with his hands, muttering, “ _Oh my god_.”

* * *

**_Two Days Later…_ **

Miles away in Queens, Peter Parker perched on the edge of May Parker-Hogan’s apartment building in his stealth suit, trying his best to both convince and de-convince himself to go inside after _months_ without so much as a phone call to his aunt. He tilted his head and closed his eyes as he focused on the sounds around him, his consciousness floating over Mrs. Esposito’s conversation with Old Stan, past the tick in the water heater, and into May’s apartment, settling on the two heartbeats he found there.

“—still just a kid and he needs me!” May insisted.

Happy sighed. “I know, May. You know I love Peter. And more importantly, I _trust_ him, alright? I used to think Tony was nuts for passing the crown to him, I admit it. But I know now that he was _right—_ Peter isn’t the next Iron Man—he’s _better._ And whatever it is that’s going on with him, he’ll figure it out. And if he needs us, he’ll let us know… because unlike Tony, _Peter_ is smart enough to ask for help.”

Peter snorted to himself at the irony, his face falling when he heard May let out a dry sob that made his heart ache.

“I’m not so sure,” May admitted. “We all have our rough patches, and with Harley leaving him I just… I don’t think he’s in a good head-space right now. And he hasn’t been for a while. And sometimes…” Her voice got quiet and unsure like she was voicing something she only let her mind entertain in the darkest of moments. “You know, I wonder if what the papers are saying is true? _What if he really did kill that man_?”

Happy was silent, but his pulse quickened. “I don’t know, May. I really don’t.”

Peter hugged his knees to his chest, forcing his awareness back to the streets of Queens. He was just about to swing back to his own apartment when he felt a now-familiar tingle run up his spine, speaking to him through the rhythm of rising hair follicles and flushed skin. It wasn’t quite a warning—not exactly a threat.

But it was something _big._

“Karen?” he asked. “You picking up anything?”

“No, Peter,” she answered apologetically.

“I think it’s…” He closed his eyes, focusing on his expanded Spider-sense in the way he’d trained himself to do these past few years. “I think it’s… I think it’s the Village? E.D.I.T.H., can you scan the area?”

A new voice answered, “Right away, Peter.”

Peter dove from the roof, picking up momentum before swinging toward Greenwich Village, shooting a quick web at a carjacker over his shoulder but largely ignoring his mundane surroundings.

By the time he made it to the East River, he didn’t need E.D.I.T.H. to tell him about the energy surge coming from Bleeker Street.

He could feel it.

Beneath his mask, Peter gasped.

“ _Tony._ ”

* * *

None of them quite knew what to expect from Tony Stark.

Strange, Rhodey, and Bruce all stood around the large, ornate bed in the Sanctum expectantly: Strange with a ward at the ready, Bruce with medical equipment on standby, and Rhodey vibrating with enough nerves for all of them.

What they _weren’t_ expecting, was for Tony to _immediately_ grok what happened upon opening his eyes, and be _pissed._

Tony—clad only in Iron-Man-printed boxers—levered from the bed and immediately turned to Rhodey, flashing him a glare. “What did I tell you?” he demanded. “When Cap and the others all fucked off to the moral high ground, and Keener made us watch all seven seasons of _Buffy,_ and Willow called upon the dark magicks to bring the Slayer back from the heavenly dimension, what did I say, Rhodey?”

Rhodey glanced over at Strange and muttered, “Told you.”

“ _Rhodey?_ ” Tony repeated hotly.

Rhodey sighed. “You said ‘If I ever die to save the universe and you bring me back just so I can do it again I am going to be pissed.’” He fidgeted and asked, “Pissed enough to eat me?”

Tony’s mouth contorted. “Did you just imply that I’m some sort of zombie?”

“Ghoul,” Strange corrected automatically.

Tony spun on him, pointing an accusatory finger. “Can it, Snape. When I want to hear from the creepy Potions Master I will let you know.” Strange held his hands open in silent acquiescence and Tony muttered, “Good boy—ten points to Slitherpops.” He ran his hands over his face and let out something between a groan and a yell.

When Bruce reached forward with a stethoscope, Tony batted his hand away. He sniffed, rubbing at his beard as he sized up each of the three men in turn. “Let me guess—that whole Thanos destroying the Stones thing finally came to bite us all in the ass?”

“It hasn’t started chomping yet,” Bruce said. “But we think it’s starting to drool a little bit.” He made a second, cautious attempt to check Tony’s vitals but was, again, denied with a light slap.

“Fucking typical. You know, I had a contingency in place for this kinda shit?” Tony said stiffly. “Where’s the kid?” He narrowed his eyes at Rhodey, taking in the salt peppering his hair. “Or young adult? How long was I gone?”

“Eight years,” Strange answered.

“Wow, Pete can probably see over the steering wheel and everything now—there’s a thought. So, where is he? He was meant to be taking care of this sort of thing?”

Rhodey snorted. “Pepper and Morgan are fine, by the way.”

“I know,” Tony said. “Pepper told me they would be, and I asked Keener to look after them. So where’s Itsy-Bitsy?” he asked with a groan as he climbed out of bed, ignoring Bruce’s protests. Rhodey offered him a blue robe and he snatched it, shrugging into it with a scowl. He felt like he’d just woken up from a mid-day nap—little groggy, little stiff, mouth a little chalky, and _hungry as hell_ —but fine. He waved off Bruce and Rhodey’s pleas to take it slow and examined the room with a critical eye. The dark wood and freaky vases and oddly-expressive curtains gave it away as the Sanctum.

“We didn’t tell him what we were doing—or, trying to do,” Bruce explained from behind him. “Dr. Strange, he….“ He shot Strange a look that was clearly a request for assistance.

Strange just shrugged and said, “Parker couldn’t be trusted to not interfere with your resurrection.”

“I’d fucking-well hope not—kid has more sense than all of you combined, _apparently._ ” Tony let out a sharp breath. “Seriously, what the _fuck were you thinking_?”

Rhodey walked over to Tony and put a hand on his shoulder. “Tony—“ he began but was cut off by an ironic voice from the window.

“I think the words you’re looking for are, ‘We _weren’t_ thinking.’” Spider-Man shot Tony a wave from the window ledge and said, “Hey, Mr. Stark! Wanna get outta here and go somewhere the chachkies don’t float? Catch up? Split a pie or something?”

“Oh, thank _Christ_ , yes.”

Rhodey watched as Tony darted to the window; Spider-Man wrapped an arm around Tony’s waist and swung away into the rapidly-darkening, autumn evening.

Bruce ran forward, demanding, “Why didn’t you try to stop him?”

Rhodey shrugged. “Tony wanted to go—they’ve got a lot to talk about.” He shot Strange an amused smile and said, “I thought people weren’t supposed to be able to just… _show up_ here.”

“Keener once managed to ‘hack’ into my wards, somehow,” Strange said. “At the time it was impressive. Now that we know he’s shared that knowledge with Parker,” he admitted with a grim look. “It’s _worrisome._ ”

“Now what do we do?” Bruce asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Rhodey insisted, shooting Bruce and Strange each a stern look in turn. “He’s gonna need time to get his head around this, and he’s safe with Peter.”

Bruce resisted the urge to retort. He shared a look with Strange, who simply muttered, “Let us hope you are right.”

* * *

“I am never doing that again,” Tony grunted as Peter gently guided him into his Queens apartment through the balcony door. “Pretty sure I’ve got bugs in my teeth.”

Peter tugged off his mask to shoot him an apologetic smile, revealing a mess of brown hair and tired eyes. He looked older, but not eight years older—he still had that little bit of roundness to his eyes and cheeks that would likely ensure he’d be getting carded well into his thirties. He’d filled out with a bit more muscle, but probably hadn’t gained more than two inches in height, tops. He was standing somewhat awkwardly by the window, staring down at the mask in his hands.

Tony sighed, “C’mere, kid.” In a moment, Peter was rushing forward, clinging to Tony like a koala on a eucalyptus tree.

Peter’s words were barely discernible, so muffled they were by Tony’s shoulder, but he could just make out a “ _missed you so much,_ ” and “ _so much has happened_ ” and “ _wanted to talk to you so many times”_ and a _“are you okay?”_

Tony closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the welcoming warmth of the kid’s arms—the kid he wished he’d told he thought of as a son. And for the first time since coming back, he found himself feeling a sense of awe and gratitude that now he’d have the chance, so (just in case he might _die_ again at any moment) he said, “I missed you too, Pete—I love you.”

That was a mistake.

 _Immediately,_ the dam broke and he could feel tears washing his shoulder as Peter sobbed, shaking against his chest.

After several long minutes, Peter broke away, eyes red and face puffy. He let out a long sniff and asked, “Are you mad you’re back?”

Tony blinked at the prescience of the question. Instead of answering, he said, “Are you sure _I am_ back?”

Peter gave him a brief smile. “Yeah,” he said, his voice groggy with tears. “I felt you come back, just like I felt you leave.”

Tony felt a flood of emotions far too complex to navigate, and the flicker of shock and curiosity that evidently Peter’s Spider-Sense had expanded. Apart from that, he felt amped up and exhausted all at once. And hungry.

But not for Peter’s brains, so that was comforting.

Tony smiled and brushed a tear from Peter’s cheek. It was a pretty futile gesture, seeing as how the kid’s entire face was soaked, but whatever. It was the kind of thing he always wished his father would have done for him, alright? Sue him.

“Nice suit, by the way,” he said, giving Peter an approving nod. Praise was a poor choice—he could see Peter’s bottom lip begin to tremble and so he quickly shifted course to, “What makes you think I’d be mad to be back, Pete?”

“Oh,” Peter said, giving a short nod that _instantly_ shifted his face from _crying on Tony Stark_ mode to _save the wizard_ mode. “You ever see this really old show, _Buffy_?”

Tony let out a laugh. “Fuck, I missed you, kid.”

“I missed you too, Tony.” Peter’s smile faded and he chewed on his bottom lip for a moment.

“Cool. You got Listerine?” Tony asked. “And pants?”

Peter’s smile was back. “Yeah,” he said. “I got Listerine _and_ pants. I’m _basically_ an adult—be impressed.” He guided Tony to a small bathroom and said, “Use anything you need, take your time—I’ll dig up some clothes.”

Tony closed the door behind him, taking a moment to visually explore. The bathroom was old, but clean—pretty generous bath for a Queens apartment. The whole place was generous, really. He knew when he left Peter millions in the will that there was a chance he’d never touch it; the size of the apartment, at least, was a hopeful indication that maybe he did.

Tony frowned as his eyes fell on the sink and the _two_ toothbrushes—one red, one blue—in a small, plastic Spider-Man cup. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the shower/bath combo—two brands of shampoo, one bar of soap. “Huh…” he muttered to himself as he pulled open the medicine cabinet to see an array of luxe hair-care products he knew for a _fact_ Peter didn’t use.

He shrugged it off, for now, grabbed the bottle of mouthwash and gargled to get the unmistakable taste of ashes and _death_ off his tongue. With a sigh, he replaced the Listerine in the cabinet and took a moment to look at his own reflection. It was virtually unmistakable from the morning Bruce used the gauntlet to bring everyone—well, mostly everyone—back from the Snap.

He pushed the thoughts back, staring down at the Spider-Man cup—it looked like something from a Happy Meal at McDonald’s. The thought that Spider-Man had gotten that popular made him smile.

But then he spotted a familiar, black pager and the smile disappeared.

“You working for _Fury_ now, kid?” Tony demanded, carrying the pager into the main living area.

“Huh,” Peter said as he emerged from another room, now wearing the tight black tank-top and bike shorts he’d probably been wearing under his suit, a bundle of clothes in his arms. “I was looking for that.”

“Seriously, Pete,” Tony demanded. “You _trust Fury?_ ”

Peter snorted. “I don’t trust _anybody._ But we went through something together and it humbled both of us and—“

“You never needed humbling,” Tony said.

“Maybe not,” Peter said grimly. “But it did—humble me, I mean. Here,” he said, handing Tony a pair of joggers, thick socks, and a black band logo t-shirt ( _Rage against the Machine—_ nice) “They’re my ex’s. He’s about your size,” Peter explained.

Tony arched a curious eyebrow but refrained from asking if Peter had been dating a Tony Stark clone, and if that had been said-clone’s toothbrush he’d seen in the bathroom. “You wanna elaborate for me?” Tony asked, softening his tone. 

Peter chewed at his lip and took a seat on the couch, toying with a loose thread on his shirt while Tony got dressed. “I used to think I could read people, you know?” he said and Tony nodded as he stepped into the pants. “Turns out I was wrong. And I knew you were counting on me, I knew I couldn’t keep the world safe on my own, I knew the Avengers weren’t gonna cut it, and I knew I didn’t trust anybody other than me to keep an eye on it, so…” He waved a hand vaguely and said, “Here we are.”

Tony frowned as he tugged on the shirt, taking a seat next to Peter to pull on the socks. “Here we are, what?”

“Alone,” Peter said with a sad smile.

Tony nodded slowly as he took in the information. “I couldn’t help but notice Brucey-bear seemed a bit agitated when I mentioned your name,” he said. “What’s up with that?”

Peter let out a long sigh. “There was an incident a few years back with the Hulk.”

Tony’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What happened? I thought the green guy was all kumbaya with Banner?”

“Yeah, well—not when somebody insults Black Widow he’s not,” Peter grumbled. “So what happened was, my powers had been getting more and more _powery_ for months—years, maybe. And I’m at Harry Winston with Ned and May and Happy, and my Spidey-senses from 11 to like _100_ because they know the Green Giant’s about to tear up Midtown —“

“Whoa, okay, slow down,” Tony said. “I’m gonna need you to go further back.”

Peter took a deep breath. “Yeah, okay,” he said. And for a moment, he looked like the fifteen-year-old kid he recruited in Queens—a mix of sheepishness and awkwardness but with an undercurrent of determination. “You remember a guy—used to work for you—named Quentin Beck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the first chapter! Just so you're aware, comments and kudos are my motivational drugs and you are all my dealers. *awkward finger-guns* Things will get more Peter and Tony centric as we move forward, and Harley will be making an appearance soon. Just gotta do some stage-setting!
> 
> A note on the title: I keep changing it. I know, I know... I'm an anxious bean, with the self-confidence of a raw almond.


	2. Doe-Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peter catch up over pizza and Ben & Jerry's, and Tony hears the story of Harley and Peter's first "meeting" (read: car chase)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A jolly-quick update! I was eager to start getting into the story, and our first mention of Harley *gasp*

Three-and-a-half hours of story-telling later found the pair sat on the floor, a half-eaten sausage and mushroom pie between them.

It was their third pizza.

But the kid had a super-metabolism and Tony hadn’t eaten in eight years, so sue him—he was hungry.

If the pizza delivery guy was confused at being re-summoned every hour like clockwork, he didn’t say anything. The fifty-dollar tips helped, probably.

But at least Tony felt like he was starting to get a glimpse of what Peter meant by ‘Nick Fury being humbled’ because he had to admit—that concept had _not been meshing earlier._ Apart from that, the more Peter talked, the more _his_ Peter—the one he was willing to tear up the universe to save—shone through the jaded, pain-hardened twenty-four-year-old.

“—first time I took somebody swinging like that, and it didn’t last and she hated it but it was sweet, I don’t know,” Peter said between bites of pizza. He frowned at the look on Tony’s face. “What?” he said through a mouthful of cheese and mushrooms.

“Sorry, I’m still stuck on _you had a drone attack your school bus and covered it up by shouting ‘baby mountain goats,’_ ” Tony deadpanned.

“Yeah, well,” Peter said through a bitter laugh. “Prepare to get unstuck. So I’m by Grand Central, and I just dropped off MJ, and this news billboard comes up with that asshole journalist—J. Jonah Jameson?”

“From the Daily Bullshit, got it.”

“And he plays this video Beck had edited—or somebody in his team had edited—and he’s in London, saying that Spider-Man went nuts—” (Peter gesticulated with a fresh slice as he talked and Tony instinctively worried for the carpet) “—and he killed all these people, including Beck, and he needs to be stopped, and his real name is Peter Parker.”

Tony felt his eyes widen, his heartrate picking up. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Fucked up, right? So I’m _freaking out_ —“

“—obviously—“

“—Yeah, obviously. And so I just start swinging away and I don’t even _know_ where I’m going and eventually I realize I was sort of instinctively heading to Stark Tower. And just as I get there, I land on 3rd Ave and this Audi R8 pulls up, and the window rolls down and there’s this youngish guy in sunglasses with blonde hair I kinda remember from your funeral—“

“—Excuse you, I think you meant ‘Celebration of why Tony was so much better than the rest of us’ ceremony?”

Peter batted away his comment like a fly in the air and continued, “Yeah, sure dude. Anyway, I sorta recognized him but I was, like, freaking out and my neurons weren’t really doing all the shit I needed them to do and so I’m just _standing there,_ ” he said, miming being frozen in space, “And I only snap out of it when I hear this Southern voice go, ‘Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.’”

Tony barked out a laugh as he folded a fresh slice. There was no need to hear the name to know who it was. “Classic fucking Keener.”

“Right?” Peter said with a fond smile. “So I hop in, and I hear Happy on the comm, and he’s saying how he’s already got May because I guess you had a whole protocol in place if I ever got outed, and they’re on their way to pick up Ned and MJ because they’re the people who know who I am and might be in danger, or at least brought in for questioning, you know?” Peter shifted his legs and continued, “So Harley’s driving and he’s pretty much ignoring me, just coordinating with F.R.I.D.A.Y. to manipulate the traffic lights and stuff, and I’m like ‘ _Holy shit, you got_ F.R.I.D.A.Y.?!’ And—“ Peter let out a laugh, “And F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, ‘Mini-Boss likes to call me ‘Doll,’ but I don’t think we’re there yet, Peter.’”

Tony rolled his eyes and asked, “Did she ask to coordinate with Karen?”

“Yeah, she did,” Peter said.

Tony nodded. “I had a suspicion you two would get on, but I couldn’t be sure, so I made it so Fri and Kare-bear would only reconfigure their nexus if you both asked them to.”

“Wow, Mr. Stark,” Peter said through a smile, “You’re _so smart._ ”

“Don't sass me, Parker. Finish the story.”

“Alright, alright!” Peter muttered, wiping his hands on a napkin. “So Harley’s driving I don’t even _know_ where, and Karen and F.R.I.D.A.Y. are doing their thing and syncing up or whatever, and I’m just sitting there _stunned,_ right? But then I feel something coming, and then there’s sirens and red and blue lights everywhere and Harley just turns to me and says, ‘Buckle up, gorgeous,’” ( _“Jesus Christ,”_ Tony murmured) “—and so I do and then Harley just fucking _guns it_ straight to the Bronx, and it is absolutely fucking _insane—_ and he turns to me and asks how I feel about alternative hip hop and I’m like ‘Keep your eyes on the fucking road, dude!’ and he’s all, ‘how can I when you’re distracting me with those doe-eyes’ and then there’s a _barricade_ and F.R.I.D.A.Y. asks—“ (Peter’s Irish accent was terrible but Tony didn’t comment), “—‘would you like me to play your ‘Let’s be real, we only knew this was a matter of time when a dead guy gave me a heavily-modified Audi R8’ playlist?’”

Tony was shaking with laughter at this point, wiping a tear of mirth from his eyes.

Peter was laughing too, his eyes bright with fond nostalgia. “And he just says, ‘you know it, Doll,’ and then Fri starts blasting Beastie Boys’ ‘Sabotage’ and I’m just like pressed down in the seat while Harley _tears_ through a barricade like ‘what the fuck is ha-a-a-a-appening!’”

“You know, I had him DNA tested, in case you were wondering—he’s not my biological kid.”

Peter snorted. “So I’ve heard.” He took a deep breath and said, “So we get out of the city pretty fast, actually, and he just asks me how ready I am to deal with this? Because if I’m ‘kinda’ ready to deal with this, he’ll take me to where they’re setting up the temporary Compound while they rebuild, but if I’m _not,_ he says he’ll take me somewhere nobody can find us. And I’m like, ‘option B, dude.’”

Tony frowned. “Where did you go?”

“Your cabin in Virginia.” Peter shrugged and explained, “I didn’t realize but I guess he knew you put all this like shielding on it to prevent satellite imaging and stuff? And he added his own security, too. Oh,” he said at the confused look on Tony’s face. “Pep moved her and Morgan and most of SI back to Malibu? And I guess she sort of gave Harley carte blanche with the cabin because of the underground lab and workshop, and—“

“—Then what was Harley doing in New York?” Tony asked.

“Oh, he was coordinating some stuff with the Manhattan lab, I guess? ‘Cause I mean, Stark Tower was still Stark Tower, it was just the main offi—“

Tony waved a hand impatiently, “I got it, I got it—so then what happened?”

“What happened can wait,” Peter said, standing with a groan. “You may have new-person smell, but I need a fucking shower. Here,” he said, grabbing his laptop and handing it to Tony. “Catch up while I’m gone.”

“What’s the password?” Tony asked as he popped it open.

Peter stiffened for just a moment before shooting him an amused look. “You’re telling me Tony Stark needs to know the _password_?” Before retreating to the bathroom, closing the door after him.

“It’s called _manners_!” Tony shouted after him, quickly followed by a muttered, “Kids these days.”

From behind the bathroom door, came a muffled “ _I heard that!_ ”

Tony shook his head in amusement and promptly bypassed the laptop’s (considerable) security. He recognized some of Harley’s work in the coding as he quickly scanned through—there were a number of security protocols with pop culture references Tony imagined Harley incorporated to amuse Peter. He clicked his tongue as he scrolled down, searching out the password because he was nosy like that; by the time the shower started up, he’d found it:

_Password Enabled = true_

_Doe-eyes_

* * *

Peter was evidently trying to drown himself in the shower.

Which was fine by Tony, as it gave him time to catch up on one or two things. First thing he checked after he settled himself at the small kitchen table was casualties among the Avengers, which was how he stumbled into the “Stucky” controversy that made him giggle uncontrollably for five minutes.

So: get this.

After the Battle was done, Steve volunteered to return the stones back to their timeline using the repaired time-travel device. Fine. Good.

 _Except,_ Steve didn’t _return_ via the device.

Instead, he appeared to Sam an aged-yet-happy Paul Newman.

Now, when Tony read that, he made that same sort of head tilt a dog does when it hears a weird noise, because as he had explained _over and over and over_ again to the less-physically-inclined of the Avengers, you cannot move to an alternate timeline, then age, and then appear _without_ the aid of a time-travel device back in your _original_ timeline.

Something was clearly amiss. And just as he started looking into what, he found a tell-all piece which described how Harley Fucking Keener—that beautiful piece of shit—pointed out this very fact.

And then the world collectively went ‘huh’ and did some digging.

Ant-Man caved pretty easily under pressure, apparently, and admitted to aiding Steve Rogers by lending him use of the same technology he himself used to shrink. So Steve returned, on time, but far too small to see.

Cue Scarlet Witch.

Using her freaky-flexy-finger-fuckery, Wanda manipulated Sam into believing that the Steve Rogers who presented him with the shield to carry on the legacy was, in fact, ninety-something years old.

Like Steve could even _age_ that much in seventy years.

Turns out, Wanda and… Paul? George? Whatever the fuck his name was—Ant-Man— _conspired_ with Steve to help him run away with the _real_ love of his life in sweet, sweet retirement: one Bucky Barnes.

Scott! His name was Scott.

Tony was so wrapped up in the glorious drama and scandal of it all he nearly forgot to google his own fucking wife.

A quick search revealed that she was, apparently, married to a marine biologist and environmental activist named _Henri._

Pretentious fucking name, but whatever.

It took two minutes before he had every conceivable piece of information on the guy—medical records, credit history, social security number, allergies (no reason… but it’s shellfish).

When Tony heard the water finally shut off, he did a quick google of Spider-Man’s recent headlines. They all seemed to be to the same tune of “ **Heartbreak hits the Avengers: Engagement Off!** ” and “ **Super-Power Couple not so Super** ,” each accompanied by photos of one Peter Parker with a hand resting protectively and possessively against the lower back of one Harley Keener, or sad shots of Spider-Man perched on a ledge backlit by the sunset.

He felt like somebody just gave him exactly what he’d always wanted for Christmas and then lit it on fire.

More recently were the articles reading: “ **Whatever happened to the _friendly_ neighborhood Spider-Man?**” and the particularly disturbing headlines, “ **New Accords Tensions Stoked by Old Feuds** ” and “ **Spider-Man Draws Line in Sand.** ”

When Peter re-entered the kitchen, Tony pulled up a _Vanity Fair_ article detailing Pepper Potts’ second wedding.

The cake was vegan and gluten-free, apparently.

“If it’s any comfort,” Peter said, looking over Tony’s shoulder at the _Vanity Fair_ article. “Harley called the guy a ‘grade-A douche-bag’ to his face on no fewer than four occasions, and a ‘waste of nuts’ at his own wedding rehearsal.” He shrugged and added, “Dude was eating some raw almonds at the time, so it was extra hilarious. I spit out my vodka soda and I’m pretty sure I got some on his jacket.”

“Pepper wouldn’t marry a douche-bag with Morgan in the picture,” Tony said with false casualness.

He heard Peter let out a long sigh as he opened the freezer. “Yeah,” he said as he shuffled around before pulling out two pints of Ben and Jerry’s. “He’s actually really nice—has a daughter about Morgan’s age and they get along really well. But we still hate him on principle.”

Peter took a seat across from Tony. He was wearing an oversized, gray MIT sweatshirt (he’d bet an Audi it was Harley’s). The collar was damp from the shower-wet curls clinging to his neck. He held up the two pints—Swingin’ Slingin’ Spidermint and Stark Ravin’ Hazelnuts—and Tony grabbed the mint, reading the carton ( _Vanilla Mint ice cream with key-lime custard webs and piecrust pieces)._

“Lime and mint, huh?” Tony asked, eying the carton suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “It’s not bad, but it’s not my favorite. Originally it was gonna be called ‘Spidermimosa,’ but I guess they wanted it more kid-friendly or something? I don’t know. They contacted me about changing it to something more autumny, like _Pumpkin Spidey Something_ , or whatever, but I never got back to them because I have shit to do.” 

“Who’s got the best-seller these days?” Tony asked as he popped the lid off a carton of Swingin’ Slingin’ Spidermint while Peter dug into his pint of Stark Raving Hazelnuts.

“Me, last I checked,” Peter said with a smirk. “It was you for a while, though. Hulk was dominating ‘til the whole Midtown incident, and Cap’s is always a big seller around the Fourth.”

“Star-Spangled Bananas Foster, sure…” Tony said. “Apparently that’s extra funny now.”

Peter snorted. “Found that, huh? I guess they’ve got a cabin in like Nova Scotia or some shit, but they were in Wakanda for almost two years before Harley pointed out that it was physically impossible for what Banner and Sam _said_ happened to have _actually_ happened.”

“I gotta know how that went down,” Tony said with an eager grin.

“So,” Peter said with an eager smile, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “We were at your old cabin, watching Morgan while Pepper and Henri—” Tony grimaced and Peter shot him an apologetic look. “Anyway, we were at the cabin and Harley and I had just, um… finished _exercising_.” Tony gave Peter a withering look and Peter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay—he’s the ex I mentioned earlier and I fucked him into a wall, alright? Anyway, we finish and he just kinda… gets this glazed look on his face, and stares for a while. And I’m kinda freaking out because I’m always worried I’m gonna hurt him when I top—“

“Oh my god.”

“—Hey, Iron Hypocrite—I was happy with the wholesome innuendo, but _somebody_ gave me judgy-face,” Peter pointed out.

“I am _so sorry,_ ” Tony said. “Please continue describing in intimate detail how you used your superpowers to nail my beloved Iron-son into my own cabin wall.”

“It wasn’t the cabin,” Peter said neatly. “It was the underground workshop—it’s soundproof.” (Tony scoffed an “of course” which Peter ignored) “And Harley just kinda looks at me and says, ‘Were you there when they sent back the Infinity Stones into their original timeline?’ And I say, ‘No, why?’ And he points out that the events as described by Sam and Banner _could not have happened_ and when he said it, it was just like…. Oh my god, duh! Mind you,” Peter said with a mischievous glint to his eyes, “I’m still inside him at this point—“

“For _fuck’s sake._ ”

Peter, the little shit, was now full-on grinning. “And I find intelligence _very attractive,_ so—“

“Please skip the part where you used your doubtlessly-enhanced refractory period to fuck him again?”

Peter cocked an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume I was doing the fucking.”

“ _Peter Benjamin Parker.”_

“Fi-i-i-i-ne,” Peter sighed dramatically. “So, we Facetime Banner and get the story straight from him, and Harley asks how the fuck they all just sort of… accepted a paradox and,” (Peter had to pause to giggle at the memory), “And he told Banner, ‘Aren’t you meant to be, like, smart or whatever? And so everybody just kinda goes ‘Huh’ and looks into it and Sam calls up Bucky in Wakanda and Bucky was ‘glowing’ or something and Cap finally came clean. I guess the reason Banner thought it made sense was because Wanda worked his mind over?” He shrugged and added, “The two of them are still in retirement, but Bucky comes to visit or help out sometimes, though.”

“Huh.” Not wishing to dwell on Steve and Bucky at this juncture, Tony gestured for Peter to continue with the original story. “So, back to our two heroes… you made your way _down south_ …” he prompted with an exaggerated wink.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Happy sent a quinjet to Jersey and we took that to Virginia. I was mostly, like, catatonic for a while. I was freaking out at first, so Harley just put me to bed with some Super-soldier sedatives and took care of shit while I got some rest. I woke up and found him in the kitchen on a conference call with Pepper, Happy, May, Ned, MJ, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. Turned out they’d already managed to keep the DOJ from pressing charges and even got Ross to back off, too. And they got the real footage out to the press once they realized there wasn’t any point trying to salvage my secret identity, so… yeah. I was only out for like fourteen hours, too, so it was pretty impressive. Pepper is a _beast_ with PR.”

“Yeah, she is,” Tony said. “So, how’d we get from strangers to lovers? This shit’s like _Dynasty_ meets David Attenborough—fill me in.”

Peter rolled his eyes and said, “Only because you were dead and I missed you a metric fuck-ton.”

Tony perched his chin on a hand as he settled in for storytime.

“So, I was sort of sulking in bed…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we use the power of imagination to travel back in time *wavy hands* to get some sweet, sweet Peter and Harley time!!!
> 
> Also, I know the actual IRL cabin is in Georgia, and the fictional cabin might be Upstate, maybe? I have no idea. I have placed the cabin in Virginia bc reasons *jazz hands* 
> 
> **A note on ages and timeline going forward:** I figure most USA seniors born before September go into the schoolyear being seventeen, but since the Blip students were made to start their junior years over from the beginning, it’s not inconceivable to me that Peter Parker would be entering his senior year of high school at 18, the year (I’m deciding) he was going to be entering post-Far From Home (the events of which I have placed at the end of August). So in this story, when Peter meets Harley he is 18, and Harley is 20. Before the Blip, Harley was three years younger than Peter, but now he is two years older.  
> TL;DR: Basically, it’s fanfiction and they’re the age they are because I say! Hurray! <3
> 
> Anyway, lemme know what you think! I mean, I will shout into the void but it's always nice to know whether someone out there actually... wants to read this lol <3


	3. I fucked up, Mr. Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, we get our first glimpse into Harley and Peter's time at the Stark cabin; in the present, Mr. Stark learns why Peter is now living alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back in time at the cabin... 
> 
> CW: the things I tagged for all appear in this chapter (Detailed warning in endnote). 
> 
> With that out of the way, everybody buckle up for some pre-Parkner fluff!

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Harley said, knocking softly on the door. “I was gonna make some popcorn and watch _Buffy._ ”

Peter sniffed as he rolled over in Morgan's twin-sized bed to look at Harley through the hair flopping into his face, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “You wear glasses?” he asked groggily.

Harley cocked an eyebrow. “If I’m too lazy to put in contacts, yes.”

“Huh,” Peter said, blinking a few times to clear his vision. “They look really nice.”

With a bemused smile, Harley said, “Thank you? So, _Buffy_ —this is your official invitation…” he began slowly moving backward, but stopped when Peter spoke up again.” 

“Never seen it.”

Harley looked scandalized, clutching his invisible pearls to his chest. “You call yourself a _nerd_? What is _wrong_ with you?”

Peter snorted. “What’s wrong with me? Where do I _start_?”

“Nuh-uh,” Harley said, stepping forward to pull Peter out of bed. “We stan Spidey in this house, you got that?”

Peter rolled his eyes but allowed himself to be manhandled into the living room, plopping gracelessly onto the large suede couch by the fire. He felt the couch dip beside him as Harley sat, placing his laptop on the coffee table to start up the first episode. “You are gonna _love_ this shit, Parker,” he declared proudly.

Peter sniffled pathetically and asked, “Where’s the popcorn? I was told there would be popcorn.”

“Shit,” Harley muttered as he paused the show, levering from the couch to dart to the kitchen. “Don't start without me!” he called over his shoulder.

“’Kay…” Peter stared at the black screen with unfocused eyes, listening to the _pop! popopop!_ from the microwave. He wrinkled his nose as a strange smell wafted from the kitchen, cutting through the salt and butter. A minute later, Harley was seated beside him, holding out a bowl of popcorn for Peter, his own bowl sat on the couch beside him. Peter accepted the bowl, furrowing his brow. “What did you do to yours? It smells like… fish.”

“Oh,” Harley said, pulling his bowl onto his lap. “It’s seasoned seaweed flakes called furikake—I had it at a movie theater in Hawai'i on one of Tony’s guilt-trip-trips and it’s amazing. Morgan has a Moana obsession and Pepper insisted on turning it into a cultural-learning opportunity,” he added by way of explanation. 

“Can I try it?” Peter asked. Harley nodded and held the bowl out for Peter, who gingerly plucked a single piece of green-flecked popcorn out of the bowl and popped it into his mouth. He frowned as he considered, Harley staring at him expectantly. “It’s like…” (a careful chew) “it’s like if sushi and popcorn had a baby.”

“A _delicious_ baby.”

“I like it,” Peter said, swapping out Harley’s bowl for his own, earning him an indignant noise.

“Hey—“

“Shh…” Peter whispered, tapping the space bar with a socked toe to start the show. “It’s _starting._ ”

Two weeks passed in much the same fashion: namely, uneventful.

The suit Peter had made on the quinjet to face Beck was tucked away under his bed, and he refused to look at it. Each time he thought of pulling it out to do spot-repairs and maintenance or make improvements, he felt his pulse pound in his ears and he retreated to the top of the bed, curling up in a corner to watch dog videos on Tik Tok until he felt like the mask wasn’t watching him anymore. If that weren’t bad enough, Peter was too scared and too _tired_ to talk to anyone but Harley, who spent most of _his_ time in the garage. Of course, it was Harley who did most of the actual talking. And even then, it was only little things, mixed with the occasional update, like:

“Hey, Pete—do you want lunch?”

“Fri’s sending a drone with groceries, you want anything special?”

“Clint found some of the people working with Beck and brought them in.”

“I’m making you a proper Southern breakfast everyday ‘til you stop losing weight and if you don’t eat it I will ugly cry.”

“I’m gonna do laundry, you need anything washed?”

“I told Fury to eat a dick when he demanded to speak to you, then to go to the store and pick up at least, like, four more bags of dicks for later consumption; I assume that’s okay.”

All in all, they’d fallen into a comfortable routine.

Harley didn’t push too hard, but he did insist that Peter get out of bed, shower, and eat (at _least_ ) three times a day.

Whenever Peter heard the _Buffy_ theme song play from the living room—and with his hearing, he could pretty much hear it from wherever he was, inside or outside—he’d always find himself moving to the couch to join his roommate-of-circumstance who, for no reason Peter could understand, seemed completely invested in his wellbeing. And soon enough, Peter found himself lulled into this newfound (though tentative) security and having entire conversations with another human being about more than laundry or groceries or lunch or the latest exploits of the Vampire Slayer.

“Which season are we on again?” Peter asked as he pulled a flannel blanket over his knees.

“Five,” Harley answered, tugging on the blanket until it covered his legs too.

“So…” Peter reached for the popcorn in Harley’s lap. “What is it with you and _Buffy,_ anyway?”

Harley snorted. “You insulted our nerd-heritage with your ignorance, that’s what.”

“No, really!” Peter said as they watched the troll whack Spike with a giant mystical hammer.

“Just got a soft spot for it, is all,” Harley said quietly. “It’s like comfort food for me.”

Peter nodded in understanding. “That’s like me and _Star Wars._ ”

Harley glanced over at him. “Do you wanna watch that instead? I don’t mind.”

“Nah,” Peter said. “I’m invested.”

After several minutes of just watching and nibbling on popcorn, Harley said, “I didn’t grow up in the most tolerant of households. And when I started acting _odd—_ making friends with the girls more easily than the boys, getting beat up at school, keeping to myself and being ‘too smart and too clean’—“ Peter shot Harley a mortified look and he said, “I know, it’s fucked up. But basically, my mom and everybody else started to suspect I was gay because I kept my room clean, could sing, and I was good at math and shit. ‘Course, my garage where I actually _spent_ most of my time was carefully-controlled chaos, but whatever; nobody ever claimed homophobia made sense.”

“That’s…” Peter began, feeling a strange flutter in his chest that was only partially due to the injustice of it all.

“Yeah,” Harley finished for him. “I know. She never did much about it—other queer kids had it way worse. She just sort of tried to encourage me to do sports and stuff; when I started messing around with engines and coming home covered in motor oil, that made her happy. But she’d work long hours every day and I’d mess around in the garage and watch TV while I worked. And I don’t normally pay much attention to what’s on, but I just got really hooked on this,” he said, gesturing at the laptop.

Peter settled more deeply into the cushions, turning to face Harley properly as he listened.

“It was playing on FX or whatever—I fuckin’ forget.” Harley waved an impatient hand. “Anyway, it was the first time I remember ever seeing a gay couple just kinda… existing? And yeah, it was angsty and fucked up but not _because_ they were two women, if that makes sense. And I could tell my mom was relieved when she saw me watching it, because she figured getting off on Sarah Michelle Gellar, or two women kissing was something ‘normal’ boys did. She didn’t know I was tearing down every lie she and everyone else in that shithole town ever let me believe about myself in plain sight and it was glorious. So… yeah. Big soft spot for Buffy.”

“Wow…” Peter said softly. “That’s actually really cool.” Harley seemed to relax visibly at that, and Peter declared, “I think Willow is my favorite.” He gave a small shrug. “Nerdy, awkward, gets superpowers—I can relate.”

“You never threatened the safety of the Earth, though.” Harley gasped in mock mortification. “Whoops—spoiler.”

Peter shifted against the cushions. “Bold assumption.” Harley arched an eyebrow, paused the show, and eyed Peter expectantly. “ _What_?” Peter whined when the staring didn’t stop and the show didn’t start. “I wanna see what happens with the Thor-troll, c’mon!”

Harley cracked a smile, sky-blue nearly eclipsed by the amused crinkling of his eyes. “Because he has a ham—“

“It’s the same fucking hammer, dude!” Peter said defensively through a mouthful of popcorn.

Harley sighed and leaned back against the cushions, tapping the spacebar with a toe to start up the show again. “Alright, Parker, but you better fess up later.”

They watched in silence until the episode was over (excepting one moment where Peter proudly declared that Buffy was ‘totally worthy’) and Peter nudged Harley with his foot as the blonde boy queued up the next episode. “Dude, we’re watching in VLC. Just make a playlist.”

“You wanna drive, sweetheart?” Harley asked as he readied the episode.

“Nah, I’d rather watch and complain,” Peter said unapologetically. “So, who’s _your_ favorite?” Before Harley could answer, Peter said, “Let me guess—Spike.”

“Nope,” Harley said casually, falling back against the cushions as the opening scene played.

Peter’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “What, seriously?” He gestured to the laptop pointedly. “He’s, like, shredded! How were you _not_ hot for him?!”

Harley shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart. Spike just never did it for me.”

“Who did?” Peter demanded. “Angel?”

Harley wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Xander? The Seth Green wolf guy? Soldier boyfriend?”

Harley shot Peter a look.

“Harley-y-y-y…” Peter whined. “You have to tell me.”

“If I tell you,” Harley began. “Do you promise to talk to Happy and May tonight?”

Peter stiffened. “Harley, I—“

“I know,” Harley said, holding up his hands defensively. “But I promise you: that feeling you have? Like your heart is gonna explode out your throat because you’re so nervous? That’s only gonna get worse the longer you go without doing it.”

Peter swallowed past a lump in his throat and nodded. “I will. I’ll call them after this episode. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Harley said. Peter arched an expectant eyebrow and Harley rolled his eyes. “Alright, it was Giles. Are _you_ happy?”

Peter breathed out a laugh of disbelief. “ _Giles?_ Seriously? You were crushing on _Giles_?” he demanded, reaching for another handful of popcorn.

Harley shrugged indifferently. “I’ve got daddy issues and a thing for nerdy, mild-mannered, sarcastic brunettes who are secret bad-asses and hang out with super-powered people.”

Peter began choking on his popcorn and Harley patted him on the back. “Alright, alright—settle down so we can finish this episode and call your aunt, already, _Jesus._ ”

* * *

Tony couldn’t conceal his triumphant smile and he did not care. “So,” he asked casually. “Did you go into a gay panic?”

“What, you mean did I figure out I was into dudes then?” Peter clarified and Tony nodded. “Nah, I knew I was bisexual when I was, like, _nine_.”

“Oh, really? Were you crushing on that Fred kid?”

“No,” Peter laughed. “But I did a bit later; Ned _is_ a total catch. I was too awkward to crush on anybody I actually knew all the way back then, though, thank _God_.” As if realizing he’d said too much, Peter’s ears turned pink and he determinedly began prying out bits of Nutella swirl with his spoon.

“So who was it, then?” Tony asked with a smirk.

“C’mon, dude—don’t make me say it,” Peter mumbled around a mouthful of ice cream, his cheeks red now, too.

Tony’s face cracked in a wide grin. “Don’t think I didn’t notice those wrinkled Iron Man posters in your room,” he said, nudging Peter’s foot under the table.

“I got those at the Stark Expo,” Peter said. “That’s why they were all wrinkled—because they got busted when I was nearly killed by one of _your_ crazy suits—not because—ugh—gross, _no_.”

Tony leaned back in surprise. “Wait,” he said. “You were that kid, weren’t you? The one who tried to fight the—“

“Yup,” Peter said, popping the ‘p.’

“And you _totally had a crush on me!_ ” Tony squealed with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You saved my life, alright!” Peter whined, running his hands over his face. “I was a nerdy, asthmatic, puny kid with no friends and too many Legos and you were—“ he sighed, gesturing to Tony. “— _you_. Don’t worry, I got over it pretty quick once I actually got to know you.”

Tony snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

Peter grinned, stealing a bite of Tony’s ice cream, earning him an affronted look.

“Um, excuse you?” Tony said ironically, holding up the carton of Swingin’ Slingin’ Spidermint. “Is _your_ name on this ice cream?”

"I don’t make the rules, man.”

“Well, shit.” After a moment Tony said, “Can we swap? I thought I could do the mint with the lime but it’s just weird and I saved the universe like six times so I’m not gonna apologize for wanting to eat something with my face on it.”

Peter shook his head in amusement, pushing forward his pint, trading it for his own flavor. “You know, spiders are strongly averse to mint?” he said, taking a bite of ice cream.

Tony considered this for a few moments. “Your only issue is with caffeine though, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter said distantly, tracing the edge of the carton with his spoon. 

“Let me guess,” Tony said. “It’s _Harley’s_ favorite flavor?”

Peter shrugged, not looking up from his carton. “He thinks yours is chalky.”

“Everybody’s a critic,” Tony muttered. “So why’d you buy it, then?”

Another shrug.

“Peter… What’s the point in binging on the emotional laxative that is B&J if you’re not gonna push out a feels turd?”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Gross, dude.” Tony just shrugged and Peter sighed, shooting the older man a weary look. “I thought he’d come back, alright? It’s been sitting in the back of the freezer for like _months._ ” He shook his head to himself as he stabbed at the ice cream with his spoon and muttered, “’s stupid.”

Tony let the silence fill the small kitchen, watching as Peter’s face became more distant. At last, Peter let out a sound of pained frustration before admitting, “Meeting Harley was like something out of a movie—he’s my fucking soulmate… I was so sure nothing could ever keep us apart.”

“What did?” Tony asked quietly.

“Professional disagreements, among other things,” Peter said bitterly. “He didn’t like the idea of SHIELD coming back with even more power when we were so close to getting the Accords how we all wanted them—said I was setting us all up for another civil war. And after that, he said, you know, we could stop. We could both stop and we could just have each other for a while. Said it didn’t even have to be permanent—just take a break from the Avenging and SHIELDing and focus on _us_. On getting married.” Peter lifted a shoulder in a ghost of a shrug. “I told him _he_ was welcome to stop at any time but _I_ couldn’t. He said that was bullshit and I…” Peter chewed on his bottom lip for a few moments before quietly admitting, “I said the stupidest thing I’ve ever said in my life.”

Tony leaned forward, his brow wrinkled in concern—already knowing what Peter said.

It was what _he_ would have said. 

His suspicions were confirmed when Peter’s hands stiffened and he whispered, “I said ‘the world doesn’t need Iron Lad like it needs Spider-Man.’” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And he left. That was six months ago. Hasn’t been back.” He waved a hand vaguely over his shoulder. “Didn’t say goodbye, didn’t come back for his stuff.” With a humorless laugh he added, “Doesn’t call, doesn’t write…”

“Pete…” Tony began, not knowing where to go with this other than, “I’m so sorry.”

“You know what the most fucked up part is?” Peter asked, his jaw muscles clenching. Tony shook his head and Peter finished, “The most fucked up part was I _meant_ that shit. And I still do. Because I’m a callous _asshole_ who can’t even think beyond the numbers anymore.”

“Because when you can do the things you can do and you don’t, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you?” Tony asked with a knowing smile.

Peter’s lips twitched. “Exactly.”

Tony shook his head in amusement, a fond smile on his face. “Jesus Christ, kid—it’s like looking in a shorter, less impeccably-dressed mirror.”

“Thanks,” Peter muttered with a roll of his eyes.

“I’m serious. I did the same thing over and over—pushed people away because I was convinced I was the only one who could save the world. And yeah, maybe I could save the world on my own. But I could never save myself—that’s when I needed Rhodey, and Happy, and Pep, and the Avengers... and _you._ ”

Peter shook his head, staring at his hands. “I’m not gonna make Harley an accessory to my life. He’s his own person and he deserves more than being my—my _side-kick._ I can’t focus on protecting the little guy when I’m too busy protecting _him._ ”

“Yeah, well—if you got drunk off your ass and started drawing web-dicks all over Manhattan, I _guarantee you_ Harley Keener would be _more_ than willing to kick your ass, with or without the suit.” Tony shrugged and took another bite of ice cream. “Nothing side-kicky about that.”

Peter moistened his lips and cracked a smile. “Yeah, I guess he would.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, tossing his spoon to the table with a clatter that sent a spray of melted ice cream along the wood. “You’ve got super-powered trust issues, kid. No big. We can fix this. But you’ve gotta do this for you. I’m talking 100-point restoration—not just some cosmetic touch-ups good enough to lure Harley back long enough for you to fuck it up again.”

“Know that from experience, huh?”

“Yeah, kid, thought I made that clear.”

Peter’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “And what, I’m supposed to lie and tell him I’ll give up Spider-Man? And we’ll have a kid to bury our problems with until a threat so big I can’t say no shows up? And then where will we be?”

“Okay, ouch,” Tony said, placing a hand over the spot where the arc-reactor used to be.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Peter mumbled, letting his head hang as he gripped his hair in his hands. “That was—that was really shitty of me. You don’t deserve that.”

“Yeah, no kidding—for a second there I thought I was talking to Keener. I’m beginning to see why he stopped putting up with your B.S.”

Peter snorted. “You’re not wrong.”

Tony folded his arms across his chest and said, “It’s a limited comparison, anyway. Harley’s not Pepper because Harley gets it— _us—_ in a way Pep never could. He knows what it’s like to hear gunshots and feel the need to run toward it instead of away. He knows why I did what I did, and why you do what you do. He didn’t _ask_ you to give up Spider-Man: he asked you to take a _break._ ” Tony hesitated for just a moment before admitting, “And I gotta tell you, kid—relationship issues aside, I don’t think he’s _wrong._ I think you _do_ need a break.”

Peter eyed him doubtfully, his watery eyes barely visible through the brown waves of hair cascading over his face.

“Look,” Tony said. “You said it yourself your powers have changed. You don’t know to what extent, or if it’s ever gonna stop. We need to figure that shit out—and frankly, keeping up with all this Spider-Manning _before_ you got that shit figured out? Is irresponsible as hell. And remember: great power, yada yada….”

Peter breathed out a wry laugh. “That’s what Harley said.”

“Yeah, well, Harley’s a fucking genius, too.” With a shrug, Tony added, “And just between us girls, _way_ stronger in programming and engineering than you.”

“And metaphysics,” Peter added, perching his chin on his hand, his smushed cheek adding a muffled, child-like quality to his voice. “Normally, I shouldn’t be able to just show up at the Sanctum without an invitation because it’s protected by wards. One day, Harley got curious after Strange said something especially pretentious, and he sort of figured out how to ‘hack’ them out of spite.” He gave Tony a sad smile and said, “Every time he cracked one he’d go, ‘Eat my dick, wizard!’ or ‘Not today, Satan!’ It was a great week.”

Tony laughed, gathering the empty cartons and spoons as Peter watched in a wary-yet-distant sort of way.

“Are you feeling alright?” Peter asked. “I mean, I know you wanted to hear about all this stuff, but are you doing okay?”

Tony shrugged as he washed the spoons, sticking them in the drying rack by the sink. “About as well as could be expected.”

“That bad, huh?”

Tony turned to see Peter giving him a halfhearted smile; he sniffed, leaning against the counter. “I’ve been through worse. I’m not going to waste my breath telling you not to worry about me, but I will manage, kid—promise.”

“You know…” Peter began, resting his elbow on the back of his chair and running a hand through his mess of brown hair. “I couldn’t help but notice who exactly was involved in your triumphant return and I think they might’ve brought you back in part to keep me under control. I think they’ve had _this_ —“ he waved a hand vaguely at Tony “—as a contingency set up for a while and they decided it was time.”

Tony frowned. “Why would you think that?”

Peter chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes watery. “I gotta say, Tony, you really called me out earlier. What you said about it being irresponsible for me to keep doing what I’m doing when I’m not…” he trailed off, picking at his thumb. “When I’m not _in control_ ,” he finished meekly, his voice shaking. 

Before Tony could cross the kitchen, Peter was sobbing. “Pete,” Tony choked out as he held the kid’s face to his chest, running soothing hands over his hair as Peter sobbed into his shirt.

Tony could barely make out a muffled, “ _I fucked up, Mr. Stark._ ” Before the sobs grew louder, the shaking beneath his hands more intense.

After several long minutes, Peter finally calmed down enough to remain seated by his own strength, rubbing his hands over his eyes as he sniffed. Tony knelt in front of him, holding one of Peter’s hands in both of his own as he stared up at his red, tear-streaked face. “Please, Pete,” he said softly. “Tell me. I promise you, nothing you’ve done could _possibly_ worse than anything I’ve done, alright?”

Peter clenched his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Don’t say that,” he mumbled. “You don’t know.”

“Then tell me, kid—c’mon, it’s just you and me.”

Peter let out a pained breath, blinking up at the ceiling as he said, “I killed somebody two nights ago. It was an accident. He was trying to rape this girl in an alley and she—the woman he was assaulting—she reminded me of MJ and I _saw red._ I didn’t web him, I hit him; I hit him so hard his nose hit the back of his skull and they had to ID him with his fingerprints.” He looked down at his hand, examining his knuckles. “Didn’t even make a scratch… but I swear, I can still smell the blood on my skin, Tony.”

“Yeah…” Tony said. “I get that.” He sniffed and straightened, holding out a hand. “I know everything’s fucked up beyond belief right now, but it is going to be okay, Pete. I promise.”

Peter eyed the offered hand warily for a moment before accepting it, only to be pulled to his feet and into a tight hug. “I swear to you; it’s going to be okay. I'm going to fix this,” Tony whispered.

Peter sniffled as he clutched to Tony’s shirt. “Is this where you tell me to look at the sunset and think about the rabbits?”

Tony snorted, giving Peter a few quick pats on the back. “I’m the undead one in this scenario. Pretty sure if anybody’s getting pity-murdered a-la Steinbeck, it should be me.”

Peter rolled his eyes and let out a long breath that fluttered his bangs. “Would it even be _murder_ , though?” he asked with a slight smile peering through his wretched face.

“Touché.” Tony poked Peter in the forehead and said, “I can tell you right now, I’m not gonna be able to sleep. I demand story-time. Possibly cookies.”

“You got it, sir,” Peter said with a salute. “I think I’ve got some Thin Mints around here…” he mumbled to himself as he moved to search the cabinets. “Girl Scouts have been getting, like, _super_ pushy since they found out I have _zero ability_ to resist buying cookies from them anytime they ask. A-ha!” he said in triumph, retrieving a box of Thin Mints and another of Samoas before returning to the table.

Tony grabbed for the Thin Mints, eagerly tearing into the cardboard. “I don’t hear storytime, Peter…”

“Oh, right. So, we’d been at the cabin, like, two or three weeks…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we go full Harley-and-Peter-at-the-cabin time! Let me know what you thought, and if the shift between the past and present story-lines were followable for you. Also, I think Peter's icecream sounds delicious, but I am sure many wouldn't care for it. XD
> 
> **Detailed trigger warning**  
>  Harley and Peter are chatting, and Harley discusses his experience of homophobia in Rose Hill, including his mother "subtly" encouraging Harley to engage in what she sees as "masculine" activities, and getting beat up at school.  
> Later, Peter tells Tony that he witnessed a man about to rape a woman who reminded him of MJ. Peter lost control and kills the man with one punch to the face.


	4. Like James Dean and Tony Stark had a baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Harley bond at the cabin, and Peter catches up with Ned.

The scent of biscuits, sausage gravy, scrambled eggs, and hash browns drew Peter from the security of the bedroom he’d borrowed from Morgan. Her bed was a little small, but he mostly slept curled up in a ball anyway; and she had a lot of toy robots and plush sea creatures that made him happy, so it worked out great.

Harley was seated at the kitchen island, reading a textbook and sipping at a cup of coffee. He nodded his chin at the stove, inviting Peter to help himself. At this point, Peter knew that the huge abundance of food was meant for him and his enhanced metabolism, and had gotten over being shy about taking _all of it._ Harley hardly ever had much more than coffee for breakfast, anyway.

“This looks _amazing._ What’s the occasion?” Peter asked as he took a seat beside Harley with a plate towering with deliciousness.

“The occasion is you only ate 2,000 calories yesterday.”

Peter wrinkled his nose as he dug into his food. “So?” he asked around a mouthful of biscuit, moaning at the warm, buttery, flaky orgasm in his mouth. 

Harley gave Peter an amused look as he watched him eat his breakfast like it was god’s gift to mankind. “So, you need more than that,” Harley said neatly. “Based on Tony’s records, you need closer to 5,000 before you start losing muscle mass.”

“Hey, if you make it, I’ll eat it. I just don’t want you going through the trouble.”

“I’m sure you don’t, darlin’, but I’m still going to.”

Peter pushed down the urge to say something overeager and awkward, and was aided in this quest by his mouthful of sausage. After he made his way through the rest of the biscuits and gravy and most of the eggs and potatoes, he swallowed and lifted a shoulder in an echo of a shrug. “You must have better things to do than take care of me,” Peter said.

“Nope.”

Peter hesitated, pushing eggs around his plate before saying with an air of false casualness, “What about your project?”

Harley frowned. “What project? The busted coffee maker in the garage?”

“Is that what you’ve been working on out there?” Peter asked as he finished up, taking his and Harley’s plates to the sink.

“I work on this and that,” Harley said, swirling the coffee in his mug. “I just like to keep busy, mostly. And there’s plenty around here to break and fix up again.”

Peter must have looked less than satisfied by that answer if the guarded look Harley was giving him over his coffee cup was any indication.

Harley coughed lightly. “So, not like I’m judging or anything, but…”

Peter shot Harley a look that made it clear he was aware of the imminent, thinly-veiled judgment and Harley laughed, “I swear I’m not! It’s just, speaking of keeping busy, I think it might be prudent to, you know, do something other than sitting around a cabin and stewing inside your own brain, big as it is.”

“I’m not ready to—“

“I know you’re not ready to work on the suit or train or anything like that,” Harley said. “I meant _other_ things that aren’t eating and sleeping. Again, it’s just a suggestion. I know you’re processing a lot right now.”

“I do things,” Peter said a tad defensively.

“Oh yeah?” Harley asked, arching a challenging eyebrow. “Such as?”

“I watched all of _Buffy._ ”

“You watched TV,” Harley repeated flatly.

“Excuse you, _Buffy_ is a cultural artifact—the voice of a generation.” He bit back a grin and continued, "And into each generation, a Slayer is born: one girl in all the world—"

“Oh my god, just…” Harley closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and for a moment Peter had the sudden suspicion that this young man might just be Tony Stark’s secret biological child. He sighed, then gave Peter a long, considering look before suggesting, “I know you can’t really explore much, but you could go for a walk? Swim in the lake?”

Peter shook his head. “Can’t swim.”

Harley leaned back in surprise. “What, really?”

“I have— _had_ ,” Peter corrected with a mumble, “really severe asthma, so I never learned.”

“Yeah, no—that’s unacceptable. We are fixing that right now,” Harley said, hopping from the stool and tugging on Peter’s arm. “C’mon, Spider-Dude.”

“But I just ate! I’ll get a cramp or something! That's what Captain America says in the video we had to watch in gym class and—”

“Well, you should’ve thought about that before you decided to wolf down a huge breakfast right before going for a dip.”

“Harley…” Peter whined, only putting a margin of his strength into resisting the pull, resulting in him being tugged from the kitchen, out the cabin, and dragged down the path that led to the small dock. “I don’t have swim trunks.”

“Don't tell me you're going commando right now, Parker,” Harley said with a smirk.

Peter felt a blush begin to creep on his cheeks and all the way down his neck. “What?!” he stammered, “No, why would I—“

“—Relax, sweetheart. Panicking is something drowning people do and we are not drowning today, are we?” Harley said, releasing his hold and stepping out onto the dock.

“But—but—“ Peter began, his tone getting more and more listless as he watched Harley step out of his shoes, tug off his socks, reach for the hem of his shirt and— _oh sweet Ada Lovelace Harley was ripped—_

“Peter?” Harley asked, a flicker of concern shining through his earlier amusement as he unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them from his _very well cut_ hips, leaving him in black boxer briefs. “Are you really afraid of the water?”

That, Peter decided, was a far better explanation for the physiological reactions currently exploding through his central nervous system, so he nodded. “I just, you know—first there was the almost drowning after being flung into a lake by a mechanical bird dude, and then there was the water monster in Venice that wasn’t really a water monster, but—“

Harley cut him off with a gentle hand on his shoulder and Peter had to consciously withhold a potentially-embarrassing squawking noise. “Peter,” he said softly, and Peter looked up which was a terrible life-choice because he’d never actually been _this close_ to Harley and his eyes were so blue they looked like the bright September sky behind them and his lips were a _perfect_ bow shape and he must have been working on that engine earlier because he smelled like motor oil and—“Do you trust me?” Harley asked.

 _That_ was a loaded question.

Harley had essentially rescued him—granted, while putting him in serious danger of a car accident because he drove like he didn't want to live, but still—and brought him here, to this place that felt like Tony Stark was still somehow protecting him beyond the grave, like Harley _knew_ that was what Peter needed: to feel _safe_. And in return, Harley never demanded anything more than Peter’s willingness to eat the delicious food he made him, and to consider calling his aunt, and maybe take a swimming lesson?

But Beck had made him feel safe, too. And Beck never claimed to want anything from Peter, either—that didn’t mean he didn’t.

Still, Peter was determined to not let Beck win, and some part of him knew that refusing to trust this man would be doing just that.

So he nodded lamely, pressing his lips into a thin line to keep the awkward, babbling nonsense he could feel waiting at the back of his throat at bay.

Harley’s grin was so wide it blocked out the sun, and he said, “ _Wow_ , so heartfelt! Now take off your clothes.”

“You got it, _buddy_ ,” Peter said not-at-all-awkwardly and pulled off his t-shirt while stepping out of his shoes. Harley turned away to look out over the lake as Peter stepped out of his pants and struggled to get them off his ankle for a moment (“ _stupid skinny jeans”_ ) before kicking them aside to land in a pile with Harley’s. Harley bent at the knees and stuck out his arms and—

“Wait!” Peter shouted and Harley froze, mid-dive. “Is it deep enough to do that? Won’t you, like, break your neck or something?”

Harley gave Peter a look of amused patience and straightened. “It’s fine, it’s deep enough—I’ve swum in this lake a hundred times. You’ve gotta just _trust me,_ darlin’.”

Peter sniffed, wrapping his arms around his bare waist and giving the lake a suspicious look. He recoiled slightly as Harley dove gracefully into the lake, sending a slight mist of water at his face.

Harley emerged, bobbing in the water as he brushed his wet hair from his face. “Okay, Spider-Man,” he said with the tone of a kindergarten teacher explaining finger-painting. “Are you gonna come in, or do you want me to come and get you?”

Peter had a sudden image of Harley doing just that, and his blush was back. “No…” he said in a very firm and not-at-all choked voice. “I’m good.” He sat at the edge of the dock and shimmied until his feet were in the water. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and said, “It’s cold.”

“You get used to it pretty fast, promise. Come on,” Harley said, swimming forward to reach for one of Peter’s hands. “I gotcha.”

Keenly aware of how ridiculous it was for an Avenger who’d been to space to be afraid of a little swim in the lake with a man who could slice through vibranium with the cut of his abs—okay, that was an invasive thought, anxiety did that sometimes, he was just a healthy young-man in his prime and his lizard-brain thought thoughts his real thoughts didn’t want to thought, it’s just Harley was very wet and also a fucking snack, it was fine—didn’t mean anything. Nope.

Peter yelped as he was tugged forward and splashed into the water with an awkwardness directly disproportionate to the grace he exhibited in the air and on land. He gasped in shock and felt himself be pulled up by strong arms, immediately clinging to the source of safety with all his spiderly might.

Harley tightened his arms around Peter and soothed, “Told you I had you, now just relax.” He frowned in confusion before a smirk overtook him and he and asked, “Are you… _sticking_ to me right now?”

The blush Peter had been experiencing earlier was not a blush, he now realized.

This.

 _This_ was a blush.

Peter felt the beet-red of mortification wash over his whole body as he had to struggle to convince his fingertips to release their hold on the skin of Harley’s back. He wanted nothing more than to push himself away from Harley and retreat to the safety of solitude to stew in his awkwardness, but that would mean drowning a horrible death in this god-awful lake, so he just buried his face in Harley’s shoulder and said, “ _Oh my god, I am so sorry, I swear I’ve never done that before, I just—this lake is evil and is trying to kill me—and you yanked me off the thing and I miss the thing because it was dry and safe and—_ “

“It’s fine, it’s fine—just tickles a bit, is all,” Harley assured him, loosening one of Peter’s arms from around his back. “I need you to relax, alright, Doe-eyes?” Peter set his face in determination and nodded, releasing his hold on Harley until he was being held up by firm hands on his biceps. “Okay, now I don't think you'll be able to reach the bottom, so I’m not gonna let go until you say you’re ready—“

“—Promise?”

“Yes, darlin’, I promise. We’re just gonna float, okay?” He released one of Peter’s arms and said, “So just stay relaxed, and remember: if you’re above the water breathe, and if you’re _below_ the water, don’t! Easy as pie.”

“That uh… that sounds easy, okay, yeah. It’s just, um, buoyancy, right?” Peter mumbled, his brain retreating into the safety of physics. “It’s just Archimedes’ Law, and as long as my body weighs less than the volume of water displaced by… the… oh, okay…” Peter felt himself relax as he kept breathing, his body naturally shifting to lie on his back as he straightened his legs and relaxed his upper body. “You won’t let go?” he confirmed nervously as he felt himself drift away from the dock.

“I’ll never let go, Jack,” Harley confirmed with a nod of assurance, tightening his hand around Peter’s.

“Huh,” Peter said as he looked up at the clouds in the sky, floating gently on a calm, cool lake. “This is nice.”

“Mhmm," Harley said as he let himself lean back to float as well. "And totally safe.”

“Did you know otters hold hands when they’re sleeping to keep from drifting away from each other?” Peter asked.

“I did. Did you want to try actually swimming now, or did you just want to keep otter-floating?”

“Otter-floating. I am _not_ fucking swimming.”

“You got it.” 

Peter didn’t swim that day, but he did, eventually, swim. He was nowhere near as graceful as Harley, who did it with the practiced ease of somebody who’d been playing in the water since before he could walk, but he managed to tread water, doggy paddle, and even dive underneath without pinching his nose on a few occasions.

After a couple of weeks, the night air started to take on a new chill that warned of a fast-approaching autumn, and the loss of summertime swims. They took advantage of one of the last balmy nights, lying back and drying on the dock, watching the fireflies over the water after swimming and splashing around from dinnertime to sunset, as they often did. And over those two weeks, Peter shared the details of what had happened with Beck.

He knew that Harley already knew what happened, just based on the few calls he’d overheard when they’d first arrived between him, Pepper, Ned, Happy, and sometimes MJ, but Peter still felt the need to tell him about Beck himself. Because while Ned and MJ and Happy all knew a lot, they couldn’t understand just how deeply Beck’s betrayal had wounded him, had damaged that part of him that had always been so eager to trust. The phrase ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ came to mind, and Peter desperately wanted to trust Harley. He supposed in a lot of ways, he already did. Possibly even more than he consciously realized.

“I was thinking about calling Ned,” Peter said into the companionable silence. “He’ll have started classes by now.”

“I support this decision.”

“What about you?” Peter asked, turning his head to face Harley who was still staring up at the stars beginning to peak their way out. “Isn’t there somebody you wanna call that isn’t just, you know, on my behalf? You don’t, I mean… I’ve never seen you call anybody but Happy or Pepper…” Peter trailed off lamely.

Harley shrugged. “I don’t have any friends,” he said with absolutely no hint of remorse in his voice or his face. “I was a social pariah in Tennessee and I got used to it. Then it seemed like everybody I met at MIT either knew I knew Tony Stark and was trying to get a connection, or trying to get into my pa—“ He cut himself off suddenly, then said somewhat mechanically, “Good graces. Trying to get into my good graces.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter said through a smirk.

“Also, I find the vast majority of people suck and have this weird habit of insisting on talking to me when I’m trying to read or think or work and I _do not care for it._ My don’t-fuck-with-me-I’m-reading-face is only so effective on the oblivious and literarily-hostile of the local Cambridge population.”

Peter snorted. “You sound like MJ.”

“She’s that friend Ned insisted I include in our ‘containment group call’ way back when, right?” Harley asked.

“Yeah, I heard her voice when you were talking to everybody. We were actually on a date when I saw the Beck video, if you can believe that.”

“Oh,” Harley said. Even from his profile, Peter could see that what had been an open expression had shuttered into something neutral. “That’s gotta be a mood killer,” he said with a hint of laughter that had none of the warmth Peter had become accustomed to.

“Yeah, it was,” Peter said, furrowing his brow and looking back up at the sky.

“Speaking of… all that,” Harley said, waving a hand vaguely. “I’ve got a call scheduled with Pepper and Happy to check-in. You’re welcome to join, of course. I’m sure they’d both love to hear from you, and Morgan might be around if she hasn’t gone to bed already.”

“I might just call Ned instead, if that’s alright—while I’m feeling brave. Fill me in, though?”

“Yeah. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” Harley pushed himself up and hopped to his feet. He gathered his clothes from the dock and said, “Night, Peter.”

“Night…”

* * *

“Oh my god, _PETER!_ ” Ned practically pterodactyl-shrieked at the sight of his friend’s face. He leant so close to his laptop (as if desperate to make sure _that was really Peter’s face_ ) that Peter could only see his friend’s left nostril.

“Dude! Lean back, I don’t need to see that,” Peter laughed.

Ned gave him a sheepish smile. “Sorry! I was just so _shocked—_ I thought you got hacked or something!”

“Yeah, I’m sorry dude, it’s just been—“

“Peter, it’s okay!” Ned assured him, his whole face aglow with sincerity and understanding and it made Peter’s whole body relax in relief that his friend wasn’t mad. “I totally get it—I mean, I _don't get it,_ but I _get that I don’t get it._ Get it?”

Peter smiled. “I get it.”

“How _are you_?” Ned asked. “I mean, Harley’s called a couple times to update me, and—“

“Really?” Peter asked with a surprised frown. He knew Harley, Pepper, and Happy had been speaking with both Ned and MJ to get the full Beck-story, but he didn’t realize Harley had taken the time to call Ned beyond that.

“Yeah, dude, he’s been like, _really great._ Because we had no idea how you were, you know? Is that…” Ned’s face flickered. “Is that okay? He didn’t tell you?”

“No, he uh… he didn’t tell me, but it’s fine—it’s more than fine. I’m glad he’s been keeping you updated.” And Peter found he meant it.

“I think he just didn’t want you to have to deal with all this stuff until you were ready, you know?”

“No, I know that,” Peter said, waving a hand dismissively at his laptop. “Harley’s been really great, actually. He’s like if Tony Stark and James Dean had a tall baby... with a mild Southern accent who can cook like Gordon Ramsay.” 

“Dude,” Ned said. “I think you just described the perfect person.”

Peter felt his ears flush and hoped Ned couldn’t notice. He rubbed at the back of his neck and asked, “So, how’s school?”

“You don’t want to talk more about _Ha-a-a-a-arley_?” Ned asked with a suggestive wink that Peter, frankly, did not care for.

He channeled all of his indifference and aloofness into a shrug and said, “I see Harley every day. I wanna hear about my best friend.”

Ned seemed to accept this, and brightened as he launched into a rant about “How crazy all this is,” and “Everybody wants to be my best friend now and I’m like no thanks” and “Flash might never recover.” Peter, who’d been feeling nothing but a constant, low-level anxiety since they’d arrived at the cabin at the mere thought of anything related to the events of the last seven weeks, found himself laughing as Ned described the fallout of the identity-reveal at Midtown.

“So of course, _everybody_ is saying they were friends with you, or that they always suspected, but it’s all bullshit. Flash tried to tell some girl that you and him were super tight and MJ overheard and just, like, aggressively stared at him until he shut up and walked away. He didn’t come out of the bathroom ‘til calc.”

“How is MJ doing?” Peter asked, a fresh wave of guilt settling in his stomach.

“Um…” Ned frowned thoughtfully. “She’s been getting a lot of attention because you two were dating or whatever, and these guys in suits showed up at school to talk to her so everybody kinda knows that _she_ knew, you know? But I mean, it’s also _MJ,_ so she’s handling it. We’ve only been in school for like two weeks and people are, like, already leaving her the hell alone, you know what I mean?”

“She is pretty terrifying,” Peter said.

“Yeah, dude. Especially now that people are like, _whoa,_ she dated Spider-Man!” 

Peter pursed his lips at the repeated use of the past-tense vis-à-vis “dated.” Ned apparently noticed and waved his hands frantically. “I mean, I’m sure whenever you come back she’ll still be interested ‘cause she really, really likes you and stuff, it’s just we don’t really _know_ when you’re coming back and you know how MJ is about labels and teenagers forming committed romantic relationships because of a toxic heteronormative narrative that—“

“Ned, please stop, for the love of God,” Peter said. “I got the whole spiel about her philosophy on teenage relationships on the plane, believe me. It is _fine._ ” He let out a sharp breath at Ned’s ‘I really want to say something but don’t know if I should’ face. “What is it?”

“Well, I mean, you’re dealing with a lot right now and…”

“Is it about Spider-Man or Beck or the Avengers or anything related to that crap?” Peter probed. “Because if it’s _not,_ trust me: it’d be a relief to hear about it.”

Ned let his head fall back, letting out something between a groan, a whine, and a sigh before returning to face Peter. “Okay, well, first thing I’ll tell you is, MJ still wears the broken necklace you broke and then gave her even though it was broken.”

“Okay…” Peter said carefully.

“But she’s also been, like, spending a _lot of time_ with this new girl in school, Gwen?”

“Okay…”

“And um… they’re not—“ Ned made finger-quotations, “—an _item,_ but they’re not _not_ an item.”

Peter blinked.

And then when that didn’t help his brain catch up with this new information, Peter blinked again.

“Are you okay?” Ned asked with the tone of someone asking a person on their death-bed if they can get them anything—water, a magazine, last rites.

“Yup,” Peter said, popping the ‘p.’

“Are you _sure,_ dude?”

“I’m… honestly, yeah. I’m sure,” Peter said with a firm nod.

Ned huffed out a breath and said, “Wel-l-l-l-l, that’s not really surprising, I guess.” Peter scrunched his face in confusion and Ned explained, “I mean, you have a bit of a tendency to fall hard and fast for somebody, and then just kinda… not be interested anymore after a couple months? I mean, that’s what happened with Abraham, and then Cindy, and then Diego, and then Aiden, and then Liz, and then MJ—“

“ _Dude!_ ” Peter hissed, lowering his voice to a whisper. “That—that is _not true,_ I just—“

“Peter, we’re teenagers, it’s okay! You’re supposed to be playing the field!”

Peter snorted, his voice quieting even further as he leaned closer. “I’d hardly call my romantic history _playing the field, Ned._ ”

“Okay, fair enough—you just played the field in your _imagination_!”

“ _Ned!_ ”

“ _Why are we whispering?!”_

Peter glanced over his shoulder to confirm that Morgan’s bedroom door was closed and gave a helpless sort of shrug.

Ned’s face went through an impressive transformation: first, there was the confusion, then the worry, then the surprise, then the understanding, which brought us to our current look of smug amusement.

“ _What_?” Peter hissed, grabbing one of Morgan’s plush octopuses and clutching it to his stomach for emotional support.

Ned just continued nodding slowly, his face, _somehow,_ growing even _more_ smug. “So,” he began. “Like Tony Stark and James Dean had a baby, huh? Does _Harley_ know you wanna web all over his _—_ “

Peter heard a noise in the distance, panicked, and closed the laptop with far more force than he’d intended.

The monitor hasn’t had the structural integrity to stay open without being propped up by a toy robot since.

* * *

“What?!” Peter demanded, Thin Mint halfway to his mouth.

Tony shook his head in disbelief. “What did you do to Keener?”

Peter scrunched his nose. “Excuse me?” he asked, nibbling on the edge of the cookie.

“You broke him somehow,” Tony declared as he worked open a new sleeve of cookies. “It’s the only explanation because _that—_ “ he gestured with a Samoa, “—is not my Keener. He’s all _perfect_ and making you _breakfast_ and taking you _swimming_ and being so _strong_ and _handsome_.” Tony snorted and finished, “Please. The Keener I know is all sarcasm, insomnia, ‘get off my dick, you're not my real dad,’ with a healthy dose of resting bitch face. I mean, holy unreliable narrator, Batman.”

“It’s all true!” Peter insisted through a laugh. “I mean, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows and before I was rudely interrupted, I was _getting to that._ So shut up and eat a cookie.”

“Good. Because if I have to hear about Keener making you the ‘most orgasmic orgasm that ever ‘gasmed in your mouth’ again I might hurl my Stark Ravin' Hazelnuts.”

“Yeah, well… too bad.” Peter popped the rest of the Thin Mint and asked around a mouthful of cookie, “Did he never cook for you guys when he was living at the cabin?”

Tony huffed a breath. “He did on occasion, but Pep vetoed sausage gravy and now I’m gearing up to die mad about it all over again.”

“A-a-a-a-and the truth comes out," Peter said with a smirk, earning him a glare. "Okay, well I won’t bring up the sausage gravy again; but he made this _ridiculous_ Pad Thai with this _really_ succulent shrimp and—“

“ _Ugh_. Typical.” Tony huffed a breath and grumbled, " _I never got Pad Thai."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, we get even more Harley and Peter happy(ish) past times! And, a special appearance by a mystery guest.... *spooky wavy hands* 
> 
> And thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave reviews and kudos!! I'm always very self-conscious about my writing and not sure if I should, like, bother sharing it (instead of just keeping it locked away in my laptop), so thank you for the encouragement <3 I am very excited to share the things coming up with you all!!


	5. #Spider-Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise guest (and rising mistrust) threaten what was an idyllic cabin retreat

Harley and Peter had been at the cabin for just over a month. The days still held the balmy warmth of summer, but the nights got cooler as autumn began creeping in. The fireflies began to fade, slowly replaced by an abundance of moths.

Peter had begun to actively seek Harley’s company more frequently, to his own chagrin. He’d been uneasy with the older guy at first, reluctant to trust his own instincts—the instincts that said _stay close to Harley._ But bit by bit, those instincts started to win out in the battle against the fear and mistrust left by Beck.

He’d often find Harley in the garage, tinkering away on this and that, or sitting on the porch, doing work for his online business classes with glasses perched on his nose. But there was one thing he never worked on in front of Peter. He knew it was there from the distinct, subtle whir of vibranium, hidden away in the underground workshop, safe from all but Peter’s enhanced hearing. He desperately wanted to know what it was, but he didn’t want to impose more than he already had and ask.

As the omnipresent racing of his heart settled in those four, quiet weeks, Peter did something Harley and May and Happy and Ned had _all_ warned him not to do: he went on the internet.

It was clear that Pepper and the Stark Industries PR team had been hard at work establishing his innocence. There were a number of sympathetic articles and tweets and blog posts insisting that Peter Parker was a hero, and that we were _all_ indebted to his service.

But they were the minority.

Most of what Peter found were demands for his arrest at best and demands that he be taken in and _dissected_ at worst. #NoMoreEIs #HumansOnly #EarthBelongsToUs and #SpiderFreak were all trending. E.I., he’d learned, was an abbreviation for _enhanced individuals._ Apparently it came into use during the Sokovia Accords, and now people were demanding that a new, stricter document specifically targeting “non-humans” be drawn up: the "Registration Act," they called it. 

He watched a YouTube video of a popular daytime host railing against him, and how the thought that “Somebody who could just walk up to her daughter and kill her without breaking a sweat made her sick.” Plenty of news anchors had much the same thing to say—that there was no place in a civilized, secure society for people like Spider-Man.

After all, Tony Stark had been the one to save them, and _he_ wasn’t a freak.

Apparently, everyone had collectively chosen to forget that it was the _Hulk_ who’d actually brought everyone back. Peter hoped Dr. Banner was doing okay; in the most recent pictures he’d seen of him online, he’d reverted back to his ‘normal’ form. The only sign that there was momentous power waiting beneath the surface was the web of scarring over his right arm, the remnant of the Second Snap. And rather than thanks for _saving half of the universe,_ the pictures he saw on Twitter were accompanied by vile hatred that would’ve made May shriek in disgust and throw her phone at a wall.

Peter forced himself to turn off his phone and tossed it to the corner of his temporary bedroom. It bounced off of one of Morgan’s giant plush octopuses and landed with a soft _clack_ on the hardwood. Not _quite_ the same as throwing it at a wall, but it was still satisfying in any case.

With a sigh, Peter forced himself out of bed, into the shower, and into some of the freshly-laundered clothes Harley had left for him in a basket by the door. He crept into the main area of the cabin, lured by the smell of sizzling shrimp and shallots, to find Harley at the stove, tossing noodles in a wok. 

“Hey there,” Harley said, not looking away from his task as he sprinkled chopped peanuts and scallions into the pan. “Thought you could use some comfort food—there’s this guy on YouTube with these really good Thai—“ he glanced up at Peter and froze, turning off the range, crossing the kitchen, and pulling Peter into a hug.

Peter nuzzled his face into Harley’s shoulder, gripping his sweater as he forced his mind to linger in the safety of the man in front of him.

“Let me guess,” Harley said flatly. “You went on the internet.”

Peter nodded. He let out a long breath and stepped away, sniffing the air. “You made pad Thai? How?”

“Skills… talents… notions… enthusiasm... that sort of thing.” Harley smiled at him and said, “Get some bowls and…” He frowned. “I am _pretty_ sure there’s chopsticks around here somewhere?”

Peter set out two place settings on the island, taking a seat on a stool as Harley dished out the heavenly-smelling noodles.

“As I was saying before,” Harley said, pushing extra shrimp and chicken into Peter’s bowl before adding a clump of beansprouts and a lime wedge. “I found these Thai cooking tutorials on YouTube. F.R.I.D.A.Y. sent over all the ingredients this morning. It never occurred to me to cook with those tiny little dried shrimp thingies before, but now that I have there’s no going back.” He slid onto the stool beside Peter and said, “Try to keep your expectations manageable.”

Peter rolled his eyes, giving Harley a fond smile. “Everything you cook is amazing.”

“You’re making me blush, Parker. Now put me out of my misery and take a bite.”

Peter gathered the perfect bite, slowly bringing it to his mouth before letting it hover in front of his lips, glancing mischievously at the _clearly_ nervous Harley who muttered, “ _Oh for fuck’s sake.”_

Peter’s eyes fell closed as he took his first mouthful, moaning in satisfaction. It was just as good as any Thai food he’d ever had—better, even, because Harley made it _for him_. Because he knew it was Peter’s favorite and made him think of home.

“Oh my _god,”_ Peter said, hastily filling his unacceptably-empty mouth with shrimp. “This is _incredible,_ Harley.” He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin with a muffled apology. “Thank you _so much_.”

“It was no trouble at all—we both gotta eat.”

After Peter finished off the entire wok-full of noodles, he placed a hand on Harley’s shoulder to keep him seated before moving to clean up himself. “You are never cleaning this kitchen again,” Peter declared as he began scrubbing at the wok.

“Who am I to question an Avenger?” Harley said, sipping at his iced tea.

Peter shot him an unconvincing smile at the mention of the responsibilities he’d been neglecting. “So,” he said a little too cheerfully to be casual. “I was thinking I don’t actually know all that much about you? Tony talked about you a few times, told me the potato gun story and everything, but I feel like I’m at an informational disadvantage here.”

Harley accepted the shift in topic and said, “Welp, I know a lot more about you than you do about me, that’s for sure. Tony couldn’t stop talking you up before the Blip, but then I think it got too painful for him to talk about after. He showed me your Instagram once—pretty sure every other pic was you stopping to pet a dog on patrol. It’s how I knew you were good people.”

“That is an accurate representation of my patrols, yeah,” Peter said with a sad smile as he scrubbed at the dishes. “You graduated high school early, right?”

“Yup,” Harley said.

“I wanted to do that, but May wouldn’t let me and Tony backed her up,” Peter said as he turned to face Harley, toweling his hands dry. “Even though I _was_ going to go back this fall, I already have enough credits to graduate.”

Harley gave him a one-sided smile. “That’s not surprising—that Tony wanted that for you, I mean. I guess he wanted you to be normal because you’re extraordinary, and he wanted me to be extraordinary because I’m normal. And maybe he thought we could meet in the middle or something, I don’t know. I don’t pretend to understand how his mind worked.”

“You do, though…” Peter said a little sadly. “More than me.”

“I had more time with him,” Harley conceded. “But only after my whole family blipped. And only because he felt guilty for ‘letting you die,’ and for letting me grow up in a homophobic shithole with no decent schools and no support for so long.”

Peter nodded slowly as he took in the information. “So, you were _younger_ than me, right?”

“Yup, by three years.”

“And now you’re two years _older_ than me?”

“Yup.”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “That is so weird.”

“ _So_ fucking weird, dude,” Harley agreed.

“What about your family? You said they all blipped, but how are they doing now?” Peter asked, and Harley tensed. But a moment later, his face was a cheerful mask.

“Nothing interesting. So, Peter,” he said, shifting topic. “You given more thought to touching base with some of the Avengers? Maybe Rhodey? Fury, even?”

Peter shook his head rapidly, his eyes widening in panic, and Harley held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Message received, Doe-eyes.”

At the nickname, Peter felt a flutter in his chest that couldn’t be entirely attributed to his brief flash of dread at the mention of the Avengers or Fury. 

* * *

In the middle of the night, Peter was drawn from sleep by the distant rumble of a far-away aircraft descending then landing. His heart began to race and he leapt from bed, running down the hall to Harley’s room. When he found it empty, he closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds around him. Somewhere in the woods were footsteps… Harley’s casual gait and… someone else…

He grabbed his web-shooters and slipped out a window, taking off into the deep night.

It took five minutes to find Harley, following his lingering scent (there was something he never thought he’d be able to do, but he’d deal with that later) to a clearing in the forest. Peter crouched low on a thick branch high above the ground, just close enough to hear and see the mysterious visitor. A frisson of sensation washed over his spine—not quite a warning, but not an indication of safety, either—and Nick Fury stepped forward.

“Hey, Iron Lad,” he called out by way of greeting and Peter frowned in confusion.

Harley sighed. “Don’t call me that, dude.”

“Why not, _dude_?” Fury said, strolling forward casually. “It’s what Stark wanted for you—wanted for the _world._ ”

Harley shrugged. “Yeah, well, I picked up a dual degree in engineering and computer science on top of all my business coursework to prepare to take over Stark Industries. If he wanted me flying around in a mech-suit, he wouldn’t have left me a 51% stake in the company to worry about.”

Peter felt his eyes go wide. He knew Harley had been working for Pepper but he had _no idea._ No idea about _any of this._ His mind flashed back to the sound of vibranium in the workshop… a _suit._

“Tony had a 51% stake,” Fury pointed out. “Never seemed to bother him.”

“Nothing ever _seemed_ to bother him, that was part of the mystique,” Harley said coolly. “And, more importantly, I’m _no Tony Stark._ ”

“Yeah…” Fury agreed with a slow nod. “I can see that. So,” he said, shifting tone and folding his arms across his chest. “To the business at hand. Tony left the crown to one Peter Parker, and all the responsibility and power that comes with it. Now, from what _I_ remember,” Fury said, his voice growing more stern. “Tony left the task of looking after the one looking after the rest of us to _you,_ Mr. Keener.”

“And I am,” Harley growled. “So you can fuck right off and let me do what Tony _asked_ me to do.”

Peter felt the bark beneath his fingers splinter as his stomach dropped. That explained why Harley was so invested in his safety: because Tony asked him to be. Because Tony didn’t trust Peter to look after himself, and—Peter let out a silent, bitter laugh—he’d proven him right, hadn’t he?

He felt so stupid. Of _course_ Harley had a reason to track him down, to whisk him away and keep him safe—keep him _docile_. Peter had let himself believe it was because Harley _cared_ about him—a kid he didn’t even _know._

Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

Peter never should have given in—never should have let himself _trust_ someone so completely so soon.

“The world won’t wait forever,” Fury said as he backed away. “There are threats that only Spider-Man can face.” He tilted his head and added, “Unless you’re telling me _you’re_ going to be suiting up to pick up the slack, college-boy?”

Harley crossed his arms. “If Peter isn’t ready and I need to, yes. I will.”

Fury seemed surprised at that. “Well, well, well! Color me shocked! Not an easy thing to do. Still,” he said as he turned back to his stealth jet. “ _We’ll see_.”

Before Harley could even turn around, Peter was already swinging back to the cabin. He swung through the trees, doing his best to dodge the branches but failing painfully on several occasions. He slipped into his bedroom window, taking deep breaths as he walked into their shared bathroom.

His face was littered with scratches that would likely heal within hours, but still needed cleaning. Still muttering, “ _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ ” to himself, he wet a towel and began wiping away the blood and dirt.

“Peter?”

Peter’s jaw clenched and he didn’t answer.

“Peter?” Harley appeared in the doorway, a worried look on his face. “Hey, darlin’, what are you up to?” he asked, cautiously eyeing the scene before him.

“Me?” Peter asked coolly. “Where were _you_?”

Harley blinked and leaned against the doorframe. “Taking a walk in the woods.”

Peter scoffed, “If you say so.”

Several moments of tense silence passed before it was broken by Harley. “You don’t trust me, huh?” he asked flatly, the hurt clear in his voice.

Peter tossed the wet, blood-stained towel into the sink. “No, Keener, I _don’t._ ”

“Tony trusted me,” Harley said as if it settled the matter, folding his arms across his chest.

Peter gripped the sink in his hands, feeling the porcelain strain beneath his grip. “He also trusted Cap and Natasha and Hawkeye and—“

“—Yeah, well, I never attacked him in an airport. Or _you,_ for that matter,” Harley said neatly. “Do you not _feel_ like you can trust me? Am I giving you bad Spidey-vibes or something?”

“What I _feel_ doesn’t matter,” Peter snapped.

“I thought your pre-cog or Peter-tingle or Spidey-sense or whatever was back,” Harley said, worry flickering over his face.

“Yeah, but it could still _be wrong._ ”

Harley narrowed his blue eyes. “Then maybe you shouldn’t trust me because your Peter-tingle isn’t tingling, and trust me because I am _trustworthy,_ you absolute _dingus._ ”

“Why should I?” Peter demanded, straightening as he turned to face Harley fully.

“I don’t know, Parker!” Harley snapped, throwing his hands into the air. “Because I’m the guy who left school to track you down, got you out of NYC, brought you to a secure location and made sure you actually fucking _ate a single goddamned meal the entire time you’ve been here_?!”

“Yeah, well,” Peter returned hotly. “Trust goes both ways.”

Harley spluttered angrily for a moment. “The fuck does that even _mean_?” When the only answer he got was a fuming look from Peter, Harley said, “Okay, well how about the fact that you could completely overpower me at any moment, snap my neck like a twig if you feel like it, and yet I’m still here, sitting on the couch next to you every night watching TV because I know you never would!”

Peter stiffened immediately, taking a step back.

Harley’s eyes widened in horror for a moment before his face softened. “Pete, I didn’t mean—you’re not somebody to be afraid of, I don't know why I—I wasn’t thi—“

Peter didn’t hear what he said because he was out the bathroom window, swinging along the trees before Harley could finish that sentence to tell him, “ _I wasn’t thinking.”_

Even half a mile away, Peter could hear the car door open and close and the purr of an engine as Harley drove away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I hope this all works out... *munches popcorn*


	6. Aunt Mayo Clinic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter burns some biscuits.

Peter stayed up the rest of the night, listening for the sound of an engine that never came. He forced himself to shower and change, debating all the while if he should contact Happy and ask for a pick-up. Maybe things had blown over enough for him to go home…? No, he knew that wasn’t true.

Maybe there was somewhere— _anywhere—_ else.

They were rebuilding the Compound, now; Peter could lift things… web things… provide awkward enthusiasm and gratuitous late 70's and early 80's science fiction film references.

It was noon by the time Peter heard the car on the gravel road outside. He made his way to the porch, folding his arms and leaning against the cabin wall and doing his best to project how pissed he was as he watched Harley pull into the drive.

Apparently, Peter was terrible at it.

“So,” Harley said oddly cheerfully as he stepped out of the truck. “There’s this animal shelter in town and they have this program where they try to foster dogs in a home for a couple weeks to help get the dogs used to living in a domestic environment so they’re more adoptable?”

“Yeah?” Peter asked, snuggling his folded arms closer to his chest and resenting how choked-up his voice sounded.

“Yeah,” Harley confirmed, smile not remotely dampened by Peter’s attempts to both physically and telepathically convey his agitation. “Figured since you don’t wanna deal with me, you could deal with Fudge.”

And with that, Harley opened the car door to reveal a dog—like some sort of cross between a husky, a terrier, a shag carpet, and a deer in headlights—with ears that tried and failed to stick straight up, long black and white fur, and big, scared eyes.

Peter had no idea his brain had sent the signal to his legs to move before he was standing at the truck, cooing, “Fu-u-u-u-u-dge, oh, yursuchagood—" He glanced at Harley who mouthed, “ _girl_ ” and Peter finished, “—goodgirl, ohyezyuiz! Yezyuiz!”

And Fudge enjoyed it immensely: even more so when enthusiastic ear-scritches were thrown into the mix.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see Harry hauling a huge sack of dog food over one shoulder and grab a plastic bag (doubtlessly full of other Fudge-appropriate accessories) in the other hand before heading into the cabin. Peter allowed his eyes to follow while Harley had his back turned. If he took a moment to appreciate how Harley’s shoulders and biceps flexed when he carried the food, well, Fudge would never tell.

He shot Fudge a suspicious look and she wagged her tail, confirming that no: she would never tell.

After a few hours of running and chasing and sniffing and exploring, Peter was parked on the couch with a very tired dog, absently scratching her ears as he stared into the empty fireplace that he still wasn’t convinced was geographically-appropriate.

Apparently, the South ‘got cold’ in the Autumn and Winter, but Peter decided he’d believe it when he saw it. At any rate, there was an arc reactor in the basement powering the house, and Peter refused to believe Tony hadn’t installed some manner of temperature control system that didn’t necessitate chopping wood.

Not that he'd mind watching Harley chop wood.

As some sort of lumber-based punishment, not any sort of um... right.

Speaking of (metaphorically anyway), Harley had left about half an hour ago to go _somewhere, again,_ but Peter had no idea where.

And if he cared, it was in a distant sort of way: the same way he cared about anybody who could conceivably be in danger. 

When night fell and there was _still_ no sign of Harley, Peter started to worry—it was the second night in a row he’d spent away. He had finally talked himself into asking E.D.I.T.H. to track him down via satellite when the familiar rumbling of the car in the drive returned.

In an instant, Peter’s worry was replaced by anger. He stalked into his bedroom and slammed the door, sliding against it to land in a sad lump on the ground. He heard the garage door open, heard the fizzling sound of a lightbulb flashing to life. But then he heard a voice, his heart picking up as he thought that Harley had come home with someone but there were only two heartbeats outside: one human, one dog.

“Peter? I don’t know if you’re listening,” Harley said and Peter reluctantly started listening more closely to the voice muffled by walls and distance. “But just in case you are, I wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said that about you, I wasn’t thinking. That’s not an excuse, by the way, it’s another thing I’m apologizing for: because I’m smart enough that I should’ve known better. And I wish I hadn’t pushed you when you’re not ready to be pushed and fucked this up because I…”

Peter pressed his ear against the door as he listened, drawing his knees close to his chest.

“I’ve been keeping things from you: you were right. You asked me before about my family... honestly, I couldn't even tell you why I didn't just tell you straight up. The words were right there and they kinda got stuck, you know? Like, you know when you're having this really good dream and suddenly you can feel your pillow on your cheek? And you just really, really want to stay in the dream so you try to ignore it and feel the things there instead?

"Well, anyway... I haven’t really got one anymore. A family, I mean. See, Mom was driving my kid sister to dance class when they blipped. They were on I-24 and then there was nobody driving the car and it spun off the road. Caused a big pile up, from what I’m told. And it’s not the only one, I’m sure. But see, when they came back it was ‘round about eight in the morning—rush hour—“

Peter clapped a hand over his mouth as he listened to Harley choke up. “The driver tried to stop when he saw them on the road, but you can’t just _stop_ an 18-wheeler and—it was instant, they said. And my mom and I were never too close, but my baby sister, Payton, she—she was something special. First person I called when I found out was Tony, but of course he was already dead at that point. Pepper didn’t let either of us get lost in our own heads; she really took it upon herself to make sure I was okay. I didn’t tell you, but Tony left a big chunk of the company to me—a controlling share—and so she’s been working to make sure I was prepared to take over that side of things. Guess in a way she and Tony had always kind of been preparing me… getting me out of high school a couple years early and sending me to college and all...”

Peter heard a distant thud, like a head falling against a wall. He imagined Harley sitting much as he himself was as he spoke: on the floor, leaning against the wall, maybe even tracing shapes in the hardwood with a finger.

“I’m not the best at talking about this kinda crap. Tony sorta had a way of forcing it out of me, but I guess I just got used to closing myself off. Like he did. Probably why he wouldn’t let me get away with it. And if he were here now he’d probably tell me I was being an idiot for—“ he laughed. “—all sorts of shit, honestly. But especially for hurting you. He asked me to look after you. He told me that you were gonna keep the world safe, but in the process, you’d get so caught up that you’d need somebody to keep _you_ safe, just like Tony did. I’ve only been trying to do just that for a month and I already fucked up. And I reacted just how the _old_ Tony would have—I freaked out, left, and got drunk and I—“ He snorted to himself and muttered, “You don’t really wanna know. Let’s just say even though I’m not his kid, I still somehow inherited all Tony’s baggage and none of his brilliance. I didn’t want to hurt you, Peter, because as weird and fucked up as it might be to get so attached to somebody I’ve only known a month, I really, _really_ care about you.”

Peter placed a hand over the wall as if he could communicate that the feeling was mutual with an unseen and unfelt gesture.

“And I’m sorry,” Harley said. “I don’t think of you the way those trolls on twitter or wherever it is people say stupid, bigoted shit on the internet these days say the shit they do. They’re wrong, Pete. I know what it’s like to feel like a freak—like nobody will ever love me but only _tolerate_ me. And I don’t ever want you to feel that way from me.

“I mentioned off-hand to you that I was gay and you didn’t even blink, you just accepted it like it was _natural._ And that is just… so fucking _mind-blowing_ to me: that a teenage boy heard I was gay and acted like it was just a fact, like ‘Oh, I’m gay. I don’t like mushrooms.’” Harley paused then said, “That’s a lie, by the way. I love mushrooms. But you know what I mean. Or you don’t. I’m sitting here with a dog who we both know would much prefer to be hanging out with you and talking to myself, hoping you’re listening.”

Peter heard a distant sniff and a muttered, “Fudge is actually pretty chill, honestly. I don’t think she’s gonna have any issues finding a family. The lady at the shelter mentioned that it always helps to send in photos of the dog at home—so people looking at the dogs online see them and picture them in their own house or whatever. I mean, I figured we’d just like take pictures of her in a tiara and shit. I’m pretty sure Morgan’s got some dress-up crap lying around somewhere and I have no doubt she’d be more than happy to share with Fudge because she is the goodest girl.”

“Welp,” Harley said with a groan as he stood. “I have officially cracked. They’re gonna need to find somebody else to lead SI into the next generation because I have lost my mind. Haven’t I, Fudge?” After a beat, he said, “Fudge’s mouth is silent, but her eyes say ‘yes,’ by the way. In case you were curious. Alright, I’m done. G’night, Peter... local raccoons, possums, or whoever the fuck was actually listening to me monologue like a supervillain.”

Peter took a deep breath and stood, biting his lip as he pulled open his bedroom door. The lights were off in the house, and Peter had been able to tell from how quiet Harley’s voice was that he wasn’t inside. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his other senses fall away as he attuned his ears, listening for the sound of another heartbeat. He heard the rapid pitter-patter of Fudge’s pulse in the yard—probably chasing something or other. Tilting his head as he listened, Peter picked up the steady _thu-thump_ of Harley’s heart and followed it outside to the garage.

He began shivering the moment he stepped out into the early October night air, lamenting his decision to skip shoes as he made his way through the damp grass to the building on the other side of the yard.

Moths danced about the small square of light in the door, flying off into seven different directions when Peter pushed it open.

Harley was standing over a workbench, fiddling with one of Tony’s large (and doubtlessly-exorbitant) imported coffee makers.

“ _Shit,”_ Harley hissed, rapidly retracting his hand from an open circuit and sucking on his finger. The smell of burnt skin washed over Peter’s nose, mixing with the strange scent of another man's sweat already muddled with Harley’s familiar one; he tried to force himself not to think too hard about that fact and stepped forward.

“Here,” Peter said, taking Harley’s hand from his mouth and using it to guide him toward the sinks in the back.

Harley was so surprised to see Peter that he didn’t protest, following like an obedient dog. Peter turned on the tap as cold as it would go, flicking his own fingers in the water before holding Harley’s burnt finger under the stream. Harley shot Peter a wary glance and Peter shrugged. “It’s what the Mayo Clinic says to do,” he explained. “May burns herself in the kitchen all the time.”

“For how long?” Harley asked, returning his eyes to the water, where Peter’s hand still held his.

“Since I’ve known her.”

Harley snorted. “I mean how long do I hold it under the water.”

“I know what you meant,” Peter said neatly. After a few beats he added, “Twenty minutes.”

Harley arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to hold my hand under ice-cold water for twenty minutes?”

“Tony installed a very clever water recycling system,” Peter said somewhat defensively.

Harley breathed out a laugh and murmured, “That’s not what I meant.”

Peter didn’t answer, and so they stood in silence for a long time.

Peter occasionally shifted Harley’s hand, getting exposure on all affected sides of his finger.

“I forgive you,” Peter said at last, feeling Harley’s hand stiffen beneath his own. “And I’m sorry, too. You just dropped your whole life to help me and I’ve taken that for granted. And when I said I didn’t trust you that must’ve really hurt, so I’m sorry."

Harley frowned. "Peter, that's not—"

Peter stopped him with a look before returning his eyes to Harley's hand. "I am sorry, though. It’s just the last time I trusted somebody, a lot of people got hurt. Beck, he—" Peter took a deep breath, feeling his pulse flutter painfully in his chest as he brought up the man who’d taken so much. “—he got into my head. Like, _really_ into my head. He knew all my worst fears and he used them against me until he didn’t even _need_ to show me illusions anymore because I was doing the dirty work for him. Even now that he’s dead, I’m still scared that everything I see might be an illusion, that everybody I meet might be waiting to hurt me and the people I care about like he did. He trapped me in my own mind, made me somebody I… somebody I can’t trust: somebody I don’t even _like_ anymore.”

“I trust you,” Harley said quietly but firmly. “And I like you. And maybe until you can learn to trust yourself and like yourself again you can let me do that for you?”

Peter felt his mouth twitch into a smile. “Like saving a spot in a video game,” he said.

“Exactly. I’m not the only one, though,” Harley said hurriedly. “There’s other people too, like your Aunt May and Happy and your friend Ned and your uh… your girlfriend.”

“Huh?” Peter asked, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

Harley arched an eyebrow. “Your girlfriend? MJ? The one you were on a date with when Jameson outed you?”

“Oh,” Peter said lamely. “I don’t think we um… we didn’t make it official. I mean, I suggested it on the plane ride home and she said she ‘doesn’t do labels’ so I don’t know.” 

“Really? Me, I _love_ labels,” Harley said with a small smirk. “But I grew up eating a lot of canned food, so it’s a necessity for me, really.”

Peter laughed, drawing a smile out of Harley that made the corner of his eyes crinkle in that special Harley-way that they did when his whole face was brightened in silent laughter. Peter bit his lip, turning his gaze from the overwhelming warmth of that smile to the hand in his. He could feel his own skin about to go numb from the cold, and he stroked his thumb over Harley’s—whether as comfort or acknowledgment of something he couldn’t articulate quite yet, Peter did not know.

And then Harley pulled his hand away with a muttered, “I think that’s long enough” and the moment—and all it might have revealed—was gone. He grabbed a towel and handed it to Peter before grabbing one for himself, patting himself dry and leaving it to hang on the edge of the sink. “I’m gonna head to bed. Stupid, easily-preventable injuries are my cue to stop working for a while and get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, fidgeting with the towel in his hands. “Of course.”

Harley nodded once, carefully shouldering past Peter. Once he reached the door, he turned and said, “Thanks, by the way. For forgiving me; you didn’t have to and I certainly didn’t deserve it.” He waved his injured hand and added, “And everything you said, and did, and just… thanks. I appreciate it.”

Peter nodded quickly, feeling incredibly awkward as he stuttered out a second, “Of—of course. Yeah. No problem.”

Harley looked at Peter for another moment, running his tongue along the back of his teeth before saying a final, “’Night,” and heading outside.

“Night!” Peter called after him a little too cheerfully to sound natural, immediately berating himself for being a flustered mess the moment he heard the cabin door close in the distance.

* * *

Peter paused his story and looked at Tony in concern. “Tony, are you…” His face fell as he made the connection. “Of course,” he said quietly. “You didn’t know about Harley’s family.” When Tony was unresponsive, just staring blankly ahead as his breaths came in stilted gasps, Peter rose from his chair and pulled Tony’s head to his chest.

“Just breathe, Mr. Stark. I got you,” Peter soothed. “C’mon, breathe with me—in… and out… in… and out… in… and out…”

Tony closed his eyes, focusing on the rise and fall of Peter’s chest against his cheek. As the panic passed, he gave Peter’s arm a pat and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his face with his hands and murmured, “Thanks, Pete. You did much better than Keener his first time.”

Peter laughed. “Wasn’t he, like, ten?”

“That’s no excuse,” Tony said with a sniff. He ran a hand through his hair and said, “ _God…_ I promised him before I left Virginia—Harley, I mean. I promised him I’d bring his family back.”

“You did,” Peter said. “You brought a lot of people’s families back.”

“How many people died?” Tony asked quietly. “After we snapped everybody back without thinking through the consequences—how many died like Harley’s family?”

Peter’s face tensed. “A lot. I mean, well over half a million. May’s charity does a lot of work with their families.”

Tony’s eyes widened for a moment before he looked down, mentally running the numbers. Given average yearly travel estimates, at any given time there’s gotta be… _fuck,_ half a million people in the air? And that’s just commercial planes. There’s cruise ships, more traffic incidents like Harley’s family, surgeries never completed—and they never even _thought…._ _Fuck_.

He was pulled from his rapidly-escalating spiral by a hand on his. He looked up to see Peter’s eyes, warm with understanding. “You saved _billions on this planet alone._ I know it’s hard, and I’m sure this isn’t the last time you’re gonna beat yourself up for this, but please believe me when I say that the world is grateful for what you and the others did. Alright?”

Tony nodded. He didn’t believe Peter, but then when did he ever believe anyone telling him something wasn’t his fault? Still, he didn't want the kid to have to deal with his guilt-complex, so he forced himself to change the subject.

“Alright, kid, I’m invested in the first season of your angsty teen romance. But I’m telling you right now: if I have to find out you waited _years_ or some shit to kiss Keener, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Peter laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna tell you all about it in excruciating detail and you’re gonna be _mortified._ ”

“I better be.”

"You... may regret saying that."

* * *

Only three days later (the majority of which Harley had spent even _more_ sequestered in the garage workshop than usual), They had gotten the news that a family offered to adopt Fudge. It was the photo of Fudge on the couch in a bandana and cowboy hat did it, apparently. After many hugs and skritches and a solemn promise to come and save her if her new family was mean, Peter waved goodbye as Harley drove off with Fudge panting out the window to transport her to her new life.

Not sure what else to do during the three hours it would take Harley to get to town and back, Peter decided he needed a distraction.

Which brought him to his current culinary catastrophe. 

“ _Shit!_ ” Peter hissed, dropping the tray of biscuits (his third attempt) with a _clang!_

“Whoa! What’s burning? Peter, are you on fire?” Harley asked as he tossed the car keys onto the counter, crouching down to help Peter gather the spilled (and horribly burnt yet _also somehow undercooked_ ) biscuits from the kitchen floor.

Peter let out a sharp breath, collapsing in a lump onto the floor. “I thought baking would be like chemistry and it is _not,_ ” he said petulantly, knowing he probably looked and sounded like a pouting toddler but was too frustrated to care. "And I think the temperature gauge on the oven is a _lie_."

“Here, gimme that,” Harley said, grabbing a towel to safely move the piping-hot tray to the safety of the counter to be with their similarly-inedible fellows. Peter leaned back against the island, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead as he looked determinedly at anything but Harley.

He tried staring at the oven, but it had only just betrayed him so he stared at the mess of flour on the floor instead.

“And uh—not that I’m complaining, mind you—but _why_ were we baking?” Harley asked cautiously.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I wanted to have something nice waiting for you when you got home.”

“And I’m Southern, so, naturally, you went with biscuits?” Harley asked as he sat beside him, the amusement clear from his voice.

“Maybe,” Peter grumbled, turning his face away. “You’re always cooking for me, and I don’t really contribute much beyond trust issues and a reason to be hiding in the middle of nowhere, so I wanted to make something for you.”

“That's not true, Peter," Harley said in a low voice. He shrugged and added, "And besides: I _like_ cooking for you. Every time you eat something I made it’s like you think I’m God’s gift to the culinary world or something. It’s very gratifying for my manly ego.”

Peter huffed out a laugh. “I guess I’m not used to homemade food that’s actually, well, _good_.” With a mumble, he added, “Sorry, May.”

Harley laughed and the sound filled Peter’s stomach with warmth.

Which was timely, because fuck knows the biscuits weren’t going to.

“You’ve got flour all—“ Harley made a tsking noise as he grabbed the towel from over their heads and wiped off Peter’s cheek. “Oh my sweet summer child,” Harley said fondly as he brushed flour and God-only-knows what else from Peter’s face.

Whatever it was had evidently reached his forehead.

“Thanks, Mr. Keener sir,” Peter muttered flatly, earning him an amused snort.

“No, Peter,” Harley said with a grin as he brushed flour from his ear. “Thank _you._ This is an image I will happily be taking to my grave.” His smile flickered as he wiped flour from the corner of Peter’s mouth and for a moment, Peter had the terrifying thought that Harley could hear his own nervous heartbeat the way Peter could hear Harley’s.

The towel lingered by Peter’s mouth, and he felt the edge of Harley’s thumb brush his lower lip. “Harley,” Peter whispered, a note of desperation tinging his voice. “Harley, _please—_ “

Peter hummed in satisfaction as Harley’s lips met his, and warm, gentle hands cradled his face like he was something precious. He tilted his head to try and deepen the kiss but quickly got aggravated with the side-by-side angle. With a frustrated noise, Peter pulled away for the briefest of moments to climb into a wide-eyed Harley’s lap, resting his hands on the older boy’s shoulders before leaning back in, desperate for contact.

Peter arched into Harley, overwhelmed by the heat washing in waves over his skin and pooling in his stomach. He couldn’t smell the burnt flour anymore, couldn’t hear the birds chirping outside or the wind rustling in the trees—there was only the hands gripping his hips, the taste of tea and honey and something that could only be described as _Harley_ on his tongue, and the sound of their mixed, mouth-muffled moans.

He gasped as Harley flipped their positions and his back was against the cool tile floor; he didn't waste a moment before spreading his legs and digging his fingers into Harley’s back to pull him closer.

Peter knew his hair was being pressed into a pile of spilled flour and sugar but he couldn’t care less about anything that wasn’t the tongue teasing his own—that weren’t the hands sliding under his shirt to caress his abdomen and leaving trails of fire in their wake—or the teeth moving to drag along the column of his neck before sucking on the pulse-point beneath his jaw and making him moan, “ _Harley…_ ” in a voice he could hardly even _recognize_ as his own.

“SURPRISE! Oh, honey, you burnt your biscuits! _Oh_ my—“

Peter stiffened at the sound of May’s voice, promptly scrambling out from beneath the man who was already jumping to his feet and awkwardly waving at the intruders—

Visitors.

At the _visitors._

“Howdy,” Harley said, his voice oddly choked. “I’m Harley Keener, you must be Miss May—it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” He turned to Peter and croaked lamely, “Surprise?”

When Peter finally managed to stand and see over counter-level, he saw a shocked-looking May, staring with an open-mouthed grin at the young man who’d just been determined to see how long Peter’s skin could hold a bite-mark before healing not seconds before.

“Well!” May said with hands on her hips, shooting Peter a grin before returning her attention to Harley. “Aren’t _we_ a gentleman!” She tilted her head and added, “And I am sure the pleasure’s all _Peter’s._ ”

“ _May…”_ Peter groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey—c’mere,” she tutted, stepping forward to pull Peter into a hug. “I missed you so much, bug.” She looked over Peter’s shoulder at Harley and asked (with the tone of someone inquiring about the weather), “Can F.R.I.D.A.Y. deliver condoms?”

“ _MAY!”_

“What?!” May demanded, holding Peter out at arms’ length. “You gotta stay safe, banana-pudding!”

Peter thought he’d be spared from further immediate embarrassment when Happy pushed into the cabin, large overnight bags under each arm. “Hey, Pete,” he huffed with a nod. With a slight drop in tone, he muttered, “Keener.”

Harley shot Happy a look. “How come he’s ‘Pete’ but I’m ‘Keener?’” he demanded (evidently taking the interruption far better than Peter himself was).

Happy dropped the bags to the ground and shot Harley a narrow-eyed stare. “You know why, Keener.”

“Hey, Hap?” May called.

“Yeah?”

“Can that F.R.I.D.A.Y. drone thingy deliver condoms?”

Happy blinked at her and cautiously answered, “Yeah…?”

“Good,” she chirped, before turning to Peter. “You hear that, Peter? F.R.I.D.A.Y. can get you some condoms, so you have _no excuse._ ” She frowned and ran a hand through Peter’s hair. “Honey, you’ve got so much _flour_ in your hair…” 

“ _May_ …”

* * *

“Your aunt May is my new favorite person, by the way,” Harley said with a smirk, squeezing Peter’s waist with his hand.

Peter groaned, burying his face into Harley’s shoulder.

After an exceedingly awkward dinner, thereupon May and Happy had finally headed to bed, Peter and Harley retreated to the safety of Morgan’s treehouse. It was far more luxurious than a treehouse had any right to be. But, given who’d built it, it was a surprise to no one that it had heated floors, a skylight that showcased the stars above, and the comfiest carpet that had ever graced his butt. They sat in the corner, Harley’s arms wrapped around the younger (older?) man leaning against his chest as Peter processed his mortification and went through something akin to the stages of grief, much to Harley’s amusement.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Peter grumbled, his voice muffled by Harley’s flannel shirt. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you asked them to _come!_ Tony always said you were a little piece of shit and for the first time I’m starting to get _why._ ”

Harley snorted. “No arguments here. Hey, Pete,” he asked, waggling his eyebrows. “Wanna burn some more biscuits?”

“Oh my god…” Peter sighed, turning to rest his back against Harley’s chest as stared at the stars twinkling above them. “I can’t believe that all really just happened, but also—“

“—of course it did?”

“Yes, _exactly._ ”

“You know what’s funny, is… I almost got the impression that the reason May was so aggressively _cool_ with it was the fact that I’m a guy?” Harley said with a sense of wonderment.

“Definitely,” Peter said. “She’d be so terrified of making me feel like it wasn’t okay for me to be anything other than straight. It’s just how she is. She walked in on me and my friend Ned once—we weren’t _doing_ anything—but I was in boxers because I’d just taken off the suit, and the next day she gave me this big speech about how she loves me no matter what and it’s completely natural to like boys and to want to experiment, yada yada….”

He felt Harley’s chest rumble beneath his head as he laughed. “That is _amazing._ ”

“Yeah,” Peter said, a fond smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “It is pretty amazing. Also,” he admitted with a shrug, “ _Not_ the most shocking thing she’s walked in on me doing.”

“Oh?” Harley asked, pulling Peter’s bangs away from his face as he looked down at him. “Pray, what was that, darlin’?”

Peter made a noncommittal noise and said, “’M tired… might just sleep here…”

“Oh, nuh-uh. I don’t think so, Mister.”

Peter looked up at Harley, a mischievous smile on his face. “If I tell you, will you tell me what you did to Happy to make him so pissy around you?”

Harley gasped, his face the picture of innocence. “I did _nothing._ ”

“’Night, Harley,” Peter said, snuggling into Harley’s side.

“Okay, _fine,_ I’ll tell you. You first.”

“Oh, that,” Peter said casually, earning him an eye-roll. “She walked in on me in the Spider-Man suit. She had no clue before that.”

Harley groaned, “Ugh, of course—I should’ve known.”

“You really should have. Now spill.”

Harley sighed, combing his fingers through Peter’s hair. “After my family blipped, and before Tony and Pep had Morgan or moved to the cabin, they moved me into the Tower. And I was a mess, like everybody else in the world—but F.R.I.D.A.Y. seemed to take it as her personal mission to cheer me up. I’m guessing because Tony asked her to because he can’t _do_ feelings. So she asked me what would make me happy, and I told her if she only acknowledged Happy when he spoke in a heavy Minnesota accent.”

“What the—” Peter demanded before shaking with laughter. “ _Why_?!”

“Because Minnesota accents are inherently adorable, and Tony can’t do accents for shit.”

“ _Please_ tell me this is still a thing,” Peter said.

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Harley said. “I certainly never belayed that order, and I doubt Tony did—he thought that shit was hilarious. Happy begged him to fix it one day, and Tony just told him to ‘watch some Fargo for practice, jeez louise!’”

Peter sighed happily. “Oh, this is the best thing I’ve ever heard. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Doe-eyes.”

Peter smiled, snuggling deeper against Harley’s chest. “I like it when you call me that,” he admitted quietly.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

Peter shrugged. “Dunno. I think maybe because getting these powers changed so much about me… made me stronger, and faster, and more muscular, and cured my asthma, and even made my skin look different; but my eyes still look the same as they always did. It’s one of the things that when I look in the mirror, still looks like the same old Peter to me... minus the glasses.”

“I’m glad,” Harley said, pressing a kiss to the top of Peter’s head. “Your eyes are gorgeous.”

“ _Your_ eyes are gorgeous,” Peter countered.

“Two things can be true,” Harley said.

Peter shot Harley a grin, still smiling as he pressed their lips together in a slow, contented kiss before snuggling back into his side, telling him all the things he’d been holding back. And as he told him about his parents, about the Oscorp fieldtrip that changed everything, about Ben, about Tony, about the Vulture, about everything he always and never wanted to share with another soul, Peter felt a weight he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all this time lift.

And as he shared the deepest, darkest parts of himself, he found himself falling completely—feeling closer to Harley than he’d ever felt to _anyone._ And with a few shy whispers and bold requests, Peter _got_ closer to Harley than he’d ever been to anyone, biting his moans into Harley’s shoulder as he was carried over the edge with a force he’d never known possible, his entire body shaking with a pleasure so intense it left him gasping against his first lover’s sweat-kissed neck.

Twice.

And he hadn’t even taken off his fucking _pants._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday; have some Parkner snogging <3
> 
> Just as a reminder, I have set up Peter to be 18 at the time he met Harley, because reasons. I like the idea of him having more time between the various movies than the film franchise gave him (presumably because they wanted to get in as many high school movies as possible, but I have no such financial stake XD)  
> tl;dr Peter's 18 and Harley's 20--roll with it.
> 
> Also, I may add explicit versions of select chapters to the series at some point, for those of you who are interested. ;-)


	7. Schtupping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley makes some waffles

The next morning, Peter awoke with a start. He clenched his hands in the pile of pillows beneath him and realized he was in Morgan’s treehouse; relief bled into disappointment when he realized Harley wasn’t there. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his senses, hearing the sounds of laughter and chatter, and the smells of waffles and sweet berries from the kitchen inside. His heart thrummed with excitement when he remembered that _May was here_.

Once he dove from the treehouse and ran into the cabin, May took one look at him and said, “Get dressed and brush your hair, button,” giving his head a fond ruffle. She gave him a conspiratorial smile and whispered, “Harley’s making us breakfast!”

Peter looked over Harley to see him standing in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove while Happy looked on, sipping at a cup of coffee. He breathed out a happy sigh and said, “Yeah, he does that,” before darting away to get ready for the day (and probably putting _way_ too much effort into his hair and outfit, but, well… what are you gonna do). As he made his way out the main living area and down the hall, he caught Happy’s grumbled, “What the hell happened to you? You’re like Martha Stewart without the corporate fraud,” to which Harley replied, “Please: I'm _way prettier_ than Martha Stewart... also, too smart to get caught, so....”

By the time Peter returned to the group after a quick shower (and a bit of obsessive-yet-futile hair-combing), he saw May and Happy already seated at the dining table and joined them. Harley was just entering from the kitchen, arms loaded with four plates, and May gave him an impressed look. “I know a fellow waiter when I see one,” she said.

Harley shot her a grin. “You caught me.”

“So, Harley…” May began, stirring sugar into her coffee.

“Yes, ma’am?”

May batted a hand at him, a grin splitting her face as she said, “Oh, _stop._ Call me Miss May again, it’s like my favorite thing ever.”

Harley’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Yes, Miss May,” he corrected, placing a plate of waffles with whipped cream and berry compote in front of her.

May’s eyes widened comically as she took in the Instragrammable breakfast before her. She shot Peter a confused look and asked out of the corner of her mouth, “Is this a special-occasion thing or have you been eating like this _every day_?”

Peter shrugged, smiling up at Harley as he received his own plate. But _Peter’s_ plate came with a flirtatious wink that suggested more treehouse-based adventures in intimacy that Peter was _very much_ looking forward to. The over-the-pants stuff was incredible enough but he wanted to get his hands on that thick—

“Peter!” Happy snapped as he received his own plate. “Your beautiful aunt asked you a question—get your mind out of the whipped cream.”

Peter felt his face go beet-red and he stammered, “Oh, um—sorry, May—you um—what?” He coughed, reached for the bottle in front of him and asked, “Maple syrup?”

May shook her head in fond amusement at her nephew. “I already got some, bug. Now, as I was _saying…_ ” She paused to take a bite and closed her eyes, her reaction rivaling Peter’s own to Harley’s cooking. She turned to the other young man now seated at the table and sipping at his coffee and said, “Holy carp, Mr. Keener! Can we keep you?”

“ _May…_ ” Peter groaned.

“What?” she demanded through a mouthful of waffle. “Do _I_ not get to benefit from this relationship?” She turned back to Harley and asked, “So, anyway, since we caught up with Peter over dinner, I’d like to know more about _you_ … now you’re schtupping my nephew.”

“Fair enough,” Harley said between sips of coffee, and Peter was painfully envious of how calm and collected the older (younger?) man was in comparison to himself. “Shoot.”

May cleared her throat neatly and asked, “Can I ask about your family?”

Peter tensed and Happy pursed his lips, covering his discomfort with an overlarge bite of waffle.

Harley, however, just shrugged. “All dead,” he said. “Or good as.”

May frowned, “I’m sorry to hear that.” She nodded her head to Peter, giving him a fond smile. “Peter’s all the family I have left, myself. Combination of car accidents, plane crashes, robberies gone wrong, cancer, and the sort of drama that has no place outside Dr. Phil. How ‘bout you?”

Peter marveled at the fact that his aunt somehow had the ability to ask such probing, personal questions of someone she’d just met the day before— _whoever_ they were schtupping. 

Not that they _were_ schtupping.

Was what they did last night schtupping?

It certainly _seemed_ like schtupping, but then again, there were things he couldn’t stop thinking about doing while he was in the shower while he cleaned himself _exceptionally thoroughly_ that were _definitely schtupping—_

Peter awkwardly took a sip of juice when he noticed Happy leveling him with a suspicious gaze, turning his attention back to Harley and May’s conversation.

Harley twisted his mouth as he considered May’s question, then said, “Peter doesn’t actually know this yet, because we, uh… didn't get to it. But my dad left when I was seven. He went to the gas station and never came back. He called once, after some magazine published a piece on Tony’s ‘philanthropic adoption of a Blip-orphan,’ asking for money, but I haven’t heard from him apart from that.”

Happy snorted.

Both May and Peter shot him an affronted look, only to find Harley’s shoulders were shaking in silent laughter as well.

“You wanna tell it?” Harley asked.

Happy shook his head. “You tell it better.”

“This is true,” Harley said. “Okay, so the reason we’re laughing, is because Pepper called him back and scared the living hell out of him and last we heard we was in _Mexico_ —well, let me back-track a bit, first. After dad left, it was just me, my mom, and my baby sister Payton—she’s five years younger than me, just a toddler when dad left.” He paused, then asked May, “Did Happy tell you about the whole Mandarin business? And how Tony moved me here to live with him and his family?”

“He did,” May said.

“Had to tell her about six times a day that you were good people and give her the abridged biography,” Happy said. He shot Harley a glare and added, “Thanks for schtupping her nephew, by the way—I _told_ her Peter was perfectly safe with you but you couldn’t keep your waffle-pressing, berry-compoting hands to yourself and now I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”

Harley snorted and mouthed, “ _Sorry,_ ” but his face was not _remotely_ apologetic.

May waved a dismissive hand and said, “Oh, please, it’s fine. I mean, don’t ever hurt him or I’ll bury you so deep the worms won’t be able to find you, but _really, it’s fine._ ” The severity of the shovel-talk was offset by the eagerness with which she dug back into her waffles.

Peter, meanwhile, was rapidly vacillating between 1. Mortification at the ‘schtupping’ discussion from his aunt and her boyfriend, 2. Fascination at this new information about Harley’s past and insight into his life, and 3. _Oh my god these are good waffles._

“Noted,” Harley said. “Anyway, my mom raised us. She and my sister both blipped in the car on the way to dance practice. When they blipped back they weren’t in a car, obviously, and got hit by a truck—killed on impact.”

May’s fork dropped to her plate with a clatter and a berry rolled across the table—Peter shot out a hand before it could fall to the floor and popped it into his mouth. “Oh, honey, I am so sorry—and then you lost Mr. Stark in _the same day_? I can’t imagine what that must have been like, my _god._ ”

Harley gave her a tight smile and nodded. “So... yeah,” he said somewhat awkwardly and Peter sympathized—he never quite knew what to say to people apologizing for all the loved ones he’d lost, either. “That’s pretty much all there is to know about that.”

“It’s not the end, though,” May said. “You’ve got Pepper, and Morgan, and now us, right?”

Harley cocked an eyebrow. “Do I?” he asked somewhat boldly.

“Well, you good for my nephew?” May asked, giving Harley a stern look.

“Well, I mean, not to brag here but I _am_ a billionaire, so—“

Peter spit out his orange juice all over the table.

Harley shot him a confused look. “What? So are you.”

This time, _May_ spit out her coffee.

“What?” Peter and May asked in sync, both faintly panicked.

Happy sighed and shot Keener a commiserating look. “Peter didn’t go to the will-reading, and with the whole—“ he waved a hand vaguely, “—Beck business, he never really got caught up. ‘Course, now he’s eighteen, that is something we’re gonna have to take care of.” He turned to Peter and said, “Tony wanted to make sure you were comfortable enough to get a place and go to school, and not doing something ridiculous like working yourself to death with multiple jobs while also running around Queens in a leotard out of some overdeveloped sense of pride because, let’s face it, that would be very on-brand for you.”

"And probably wanted to make sure you'd have the money to maintain your suits," Harley added.

“Yeah, okay, but—“ Peter glanced between Happy, May, and Harley in turn. “He didn’t leave me a _billion dollars_ , did he?”

“No,” Harley answered, pouring himself a second cup of coffee. “He left you millions.” He scrunched his face as he recalled and said, “I think it was something to the tune of 150 mill, after taxes.”

“But you said I was a _billionaire,_ ” Peter squeaked, long past the capacity to make his voice anywhere _near_ approaching normal.

Harley tilted his head back in forth as he considered, “In assets, definitely, and that’s not even including your 2.5% stake in Stark Industries.”

“What?”

Harley sighed and placed his mug on the table, clearly giving up on his dream of being sufficiently caffeinated for now. “Do you know how much graphene costs? Or vibranium? Even your first suit is upwards of five million in raw materials alone, let alone the cost of design and manufacture. The Iron Spider is valued at 1.1 billion. And don’t even get me started on the server maintenance and security cost of Karen—“

May held up her hands in a halting gesture. “Wait, wait, wait, Harley. Are you telling me you _understand all this stuff_?”

“Well, yeah,” Harley said, turning to face May. “I’m working on my MBA online, but I’ve also been shadowing both Pepper and Tony for years now. They, uh... don't really cover most of this shi—stuff," he rapidly corrected, "at Stanford.”

“Huh?” Peter and May responded in perfect synchrony.

Harley frowned, leaning toward Peter. “Did I not mention that?”

Peter blushed, and muttered out of the corner of his mouth quiet enough that only Harley could hear, “We only got as far as your time in MIT last night before we got… distracted.”

Harley’s mouth split into a satisfied grin. “Oh yeah.”

“Peter,” May chided. “Did you not ask this lovely young man _any_ questions about himself and his life and goals and interests and plans for the future before schtupping on the kitchen floor?”

Harrison’s shoulders began to shake with silent laughter once more as Peter let his face fall to the table with a _thud,_ narrowly missing his half-eaten waffles.

Happy reached over the table and gave Peter a gruff pat on the back. “He learned everything he needed to know from his Peter-tingle. Ain’t that right, Pete?”

Without removing his head from the table, Peter shot Happy a weak thumbs-up.

Happy gave Peter’s shoulder a squeeze. “Keener’s pretty Google-able, Pete. Don’t beat yourself up, you’ll catch up.” 

“That’s right,” May said. “And he can come visit whenever he wants.”

At that, Peter sprung back up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean ‘visit?’”

May blinked at her nephew, sharing a confused glance with Happy and Harley in turn before returning her gaze to Peter. “Well, honey,” she said through an awkward laugh. “You’re coming back home with us. Did Harley not tell you about the… about the DA and the Secretary of State and the Queen and… and the whole thing? It was all over the news, Petey.”

Peter turned his attention to Harley, who was staring at his cup of coffee as he said, “We don’t talk about that stuff much. I’ve been keeping Peter out of it when I can.”

“Well, sure, I get that, but this is _good news_!” May said, giving her nephew a wide smile. “You were pardoned and cleared of all charges, and now you’re eighteen the Avengers are willing to bring you on as a full member, and the Queen invited you to tea, and you can come home!”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “I was already an Avenger. _Tony_ made me an Avenger.”

“That’s right,” Happy said with a firm nod. “It’d be more accurate to say that now _everybody else_ recognizes you as an Avenger—Sam made a statement and everything.”

“So, what,” Peter said, finding himself getting angry for some reason. “Everybody in New York is just gonna welcome me home with open arms? They all think I’m a freak who should be locked up in a lab and dissected, last I checked.”

May floundered for a few moments before saying, “Well, you can’t expect to please _everybody,_ bug… but you can come home, that’s the important thing.”

“Well, maybe—“ Peter gritted his teeth and cut himself off before he could say something hurtful to the woman who gave up all her own dreams to raise a kid she never even wanted to have in the first place. A kid who wasn’t even her _blood._ Instead, he stood and murmured, “I’m just—I just gotta be alone for a bit. Excuse me,” before turning and leaving the cabin, heading back to the safety of the treehouse.

As he scaled the ladder, he heard May’s voice whisper, “I thought he’d be happy…”

“It’s a shitty situation,” Happy said. “It’s not you, May.”

May sniffled and asked, “Harley, honey, would you mind just checking on him?”

And Harley must have agreed, because a minute later, there was a knock on the trapdoor. When Peter didn’t acknowledge it or move from the safety of his pillow-nest-corner, Harley pushed it open, locked the latch, and crawled to sit beside Peter on the bounty of purple and blue cushions. Peter wrapped his arms around Harley’s waist and buried his face in his stomach. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Me either, if I’m being honest,” Harley admitted. “I mean, I knew this wouldn’t last forever, but I don’t know. Guess at some point I started hoping it would.”

Peter felt a burst of warmth surge through him and he couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Me too.”

“But that’s not what’s got you hiding in a treehouse,” Harley observed.

Peter sighed. “I just… I’m terrified that if I go back, that somebody’s gonna come after her,” he said, his voice getting higher and more frantic the longer he went on. “I mean, I’ve seen movies, dude: that’s, like, the first bad-guy go-to move is to threaten everybody you love. And Toomes even did it! In the car at Homecoming, he threatened to kill me and everybody I love and I was so scared I couldn’t even tell him how incredibly predictable and lame that is, and—“

“But you still went after him.”

“Yeah, but maybe I shouldn’t have! Maybe I should’ve listened to him and—“

“Then that’s easy, just don’t go back to the City.”

“If I don’t go back to the city, I may as well not be Spider-Man anymore.”

“Then don’t be Spider-Man anymore.”

Peter pushed himself up, his face scrunched in affront and hissed, “ _What_?” Harley shrugged, but didn’t repeat himself. “I can’t just _not be Spider-Man,_ Harley _._ ”

“Why not? You said it yourself people don’t _want_ you to be Spider-Man, so why give up so much and risk so much if you’re so terrified for May’s safety just to help people who think you’d be better off locked up in a lab?”

“Because when you can help people—help _save lives—_ you can’t just _not do it!_ ” Peter snapped. “That’s just—that just makes you a willful bystander, which makes it _your fault_ when people die! It doesn’t matter if they say horrible stuff on Twitter, they don’t deserve to be killed by some dude with a grudge and a gimmick!”

Harley cocked an eyebrow and nodded slowly. “Well, I think you’ve just answered your concerns better than I ever could have.”

“Huh.” Peter leaned back against the wall, his side lined up against Harley’s. He turned to him with a knowing smile on his face and said, “You just totally reverse-psyched me out, didn’t you?”

Harley shrugged. “Honestly, it’s almost as stereotypical a move as a villain threatening a hero’s loved ones and I’m a little disappointed you walked right into it.”

“Guess I needed to, maybe,” Peter said thoughtfully. He let out a sharp breath and said, “People really do hate me though, huh.”

“There were always people who hated you and all the Avengers. That isn’t anything new.” He turned to Peter and gave him a smirk. “Though, now that people know you’re Night Monkey, you’re real popular in Europe—Germany especially, for some reason.”

Peter snorted. “Oh goody.”

Harley patted Peter’s hand with his and said, “I’d run away to Germany with you in a heartbeat, Night Monkey.”

“I think you just like saying ‘Night Monkey,’” Peter mumbled. 

“I do,” Harley said with a happy sigh. “It’s even better in German— _Nachtaffe_.”

Peter furrowed his brow. “How do you even _know_ that?”

“Oh, I speak German.”

Peter looked up at Harley. “What? Seriously?”

“Mhmm. And Japanese. I was working on Cantonese but my pronunciation is just… no.”

“Huh.”

“How ‘bout you?” Harley asked. “Speak any other languages?”

“Spanish, Italian, and ASL.”

“Hot.”

Peter smiled, wrapping an arm around Harley’s waist and snuggling closer. “Will you teach me German when we run away together?”

Harley hummed an assent, fingers lightly carding through Peter’s hair.

There was the sound of two car doors closing, and Peter stiffened as he listened. Harley paused in his ministrations before realizing what Peter was likely keying in on, and resuming his gentle strokes. “They’re taking a day trip,” Harley said. “There’s these caves a couple hours north of here Happy and I took Morgan to, once. They were talking about it before you woke up—I think they were planning on taking you, but Hap probably thought you could use some time. He’s cool like that.”

“Yeah…” Peter agreed distantly. He toyed with the hem of Harley’s shirt, trailing a finger along the thin strip of skin visible where it had ridden up above his jeans. He bit back a smile as he felt Harley shiver and heard his heart rate pick up. “How long do you think they’ll be gone?” he asked innocently.

“At least five hours, I’d expect.”

Peter pushed himself to his knees and asked, “Is that long enough?”

“Long enough to what?” Harley asked with a bemused frown.

Peter licked his lips and said, “Long enough to make sure you don’t forget me.”

Harley’s face softened in understanding. “Doe-eyes, I couldn’t if I wanted to—you’ve completely ruined me.”

Peter gave Harley a small shrug and said, “Actually, that’s kinda what I was hoping to do while we still have the chance.”

As if on cue, and drone hovered outside the small window and F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice chimed, “Hello, Peter. I have your sensitive delivery of items of a personal nature in discreet packaging, as requested.”

“Thanks, Fri,” Peter said. “Hey, are Happy and May en route to the caves?”

“Yes, Peter. Their expected time of arrival is in approximately two hours.”

“Do you think you could do me a solid and maybe divert traffic a bit? Extend the trip a little while?”

“They are currently using GPS to navigate, it would be simplest to provide a circuitous route.”

“Perfect, F.R.I.D.A.Y., thanks so much!” Peter said as he reached through the window and retrieved the small black bag of lube and condoms. The drone whirred away while Harley stared, eyes and mouth wide.

“Well?” Peter asked Harley, raising his brows expectantly.

“You’re not gonna have to beg me, Parker.”

Peter pushed his tongue between his teeth and gave Harley a devilish little smirk. “Maybe I _want_ to.”

Harley’s jaw dropped.

And so, after a lot of laughter and exploring hands, reassurances whispered between kisses, encouragements uttered between gasps, and broken pleas for _more, god, yes, there—_ Harley and Peter laid tangled in one another’s arms, breathing each other in as they waited for their frantic heartbeats to return to some semblance of normal.

Harley brushed Peter’s sweat-damp curls from his forehead and trailed kisses over his face. “How in the hell are you so perfect?” Harley asked.

Peter buried his face in Harley’s neck and gave a noncommittal, hummed “I dunno,” earning him a snort. He traced the lines of Harley’s abdomen with a finger, savoring the way Harley’s skin radiated with warmth beneath his every touch. “I didn’t think your first time was supposed to be that… _amazing_ ,” he said curiously.

“Amazing, was it?”

“It was incredible… this is still incredible.” Harley squeezed Peter’s hair gently in a gesture that clearly conveyed his agreement, and Peter bit his lip. “I don’t want to go back to New York,” he admitted quietly.

Harley took a deep breath and held Peter closer to his chest, though he honestly wouldn’t have thought it possible to be any closer at that point. “You’ve been through a lot,” he said. “But you’ll have a lot of support—May, Happy, Ned—“

“No,” Peter said more sharply than he’d intended. “No,” he repeated more softly, “I meant… I guess I meant I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave you.” His tone became more harried as he said, “I mean, I know I need to, and I know you have this whole life in California you need to get back to, and I know you weren’t just gonna stay with me forever, but I just—“

“Me either,” Harley admitted, cutting Peter off. “I don’t want to leave you, either.” He buried his face in Peter’s hair, his voice muffled by brown waves as he said, “It’s only a four-hour flight in the Stark-jet— _half_ an hour in the quinjet. I’ll visit so much you get sick of me.”

Peter snorted. “Unlikely.” He tightened his grip on Harley’s waist and asked, “Do you think it’ll be okay? Going back, I mean?”

“I think it’ll be hard,” Harley said. “But I also think it’ll be okay. And if it’s not, I’ll just come rescue you again.”

Peter shifted himself to his elbows to look down into Harley’s face. “Promise?” he asked.

“I promise, Doe-eyes.”

* * *

“Yeah, so um… I totally lost my virginity in that treehouse, by the way—surprise!” Peter said, throwing in a pair of jazz hands for good measure.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tony muttered, trying and failing to conceal his amusement. “Gotta hand it to you, kid: you move _way_ faster than I thought you would."

Peter gave a shrug and a coy smile. "Well, I was an eighteen-year-old virgin shacked up in cabin with a hot-ass genius after a near-death experience: what did you _expect_?"

Tony snorted. _"Not_ _that_." He shook his head and added, "You desecrated my daughter’s treehouse, you abused my Happy—poor Happy….”

Peter barked out laugh. “Oh, yeah, Happy,” he sighed happily. “One time when they were visiting the Tower, he snapped at Harley over brunch when he was lured into asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. a question; she answered in a Midwestern accent that she was having trouble understanding him and said, ‘Ope! Please speak up, dontcha know.’” Tony snorted and Peter had to take a few calming breaths before he could continue. “So Happy yells at Harley, and Harley just pouts and says in the saddest, most pathetic voice, ‘All my family is dead,’ and it shouldn’t have been funny but I just _lost it._ ”

Tony shook with laughter. “Ohhhh, I love that piece of shit so much.” He rubbed at his eyes, still occasionally letting out a laugh. “God, what time is it anyway?”

Peter craned around to look the clock on the oven and answered, “Nearly two.”

“Wow,” Tony said in a distant sort of way. “So,” he clapped his hands together. “Going back: you found out about the Iron Lad suit by spying on _Fury,_ huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Hey, you want some coffee? I’m gonna have some tea, but there’s—“

“Tea sounds perfect.”

Peter smiled and stood to get a kettle going, talking as he fetched two mugs from the cabinet. While he worked, Tony grabbed Peter’s phone and did a quick search (Karen let him right in—such a good girl): there were 701,409 estimated deaths from Blip-Return incidents, and 10,000+ estimated related suicides. And that was just _Earth_. He quickly closed the laptop again as Peter said, “Yeah, I found out about it—it made a lot of sense, in hindsight, and I was hurt he kept that from me. But then when the hurt and anger passed, I realized that I was being a giant douche about it all.”

Tony’s brows went up. “How’d you figure?”

“Well,” Peter said, folding his arms and leaning against the counter as he waited for the water to boil. “Harley was so, _so_ patient with me. He’d sort of nudge me sometimes—to call May and eat and stuff—but he never really _pushed._ He just trusted that I’d take steps when I was ready, but I didn’t give him the same option. I guess because I was still so paranoid from Mysterio that I felt like I was _entitled_ to all that information about him, which is unfair and bullshit. I’m not entitled to anything from him.”

Tony didn’t point out the use of the present tense and just nodded in understanding. “You’re a hell of a lot more well-adjusted than you have any right to be, Peter. Quit making the rest of us look like assholes, okay?”

Peter gave him a wry smile. “I don’t know if I would’ve come to that conclusion if I _hadn’t_ heard that conversation, though. Because once I settled down, I sort of realized something that my mind had completely glossed over at the time,” he said, pointedly swiping a hand over his head.

“That being?” Tony prompted.

“That _being,_ ” Peter said as he poured water into two mugs before setting them down at the table and sliding into his chair. “What Harley said to Fury about using the suit. I realized that if Harley hadn’t talked to me about the Iron Lad suit after confiding in me about so much _else_ , it wasn’t because he didn’t trust me: it was because he was _scared._ And scared in a way that had nothing to _do_ with me. So hearing him tell Fury that if I wasn’t ready and the world needed a hero, _he’d_ be willing to do something that must have terrified him just so _I_ wouldn’t have to? That changed things. Because…” he stared down at his cup, licking his lips with his tongue. “Because that’s when I realized that even though he was looking after me because you asked him to, he really, _really_ cared about me. And I cared about him, too.”

Tony slid his hands around his mug, greedily absorbing the warmth. “You both are too much like me for your own good,” he said. “But you’re also both so much better than me. I wouldn’t have done what I did if I didn’t know the world—and my family—would be well looked after in my absence, Pete.”

“Yeah,” Peter said softly, nudging Tony’s foot under the table. “I know.”

Tony let out a long sigh and said, “I knew the moment you turned me down at just fifteen years old, that you were going to be the one to follow me. That you’d be the one to take the big risks, meet the big threats, but also make the _right calls_. But I also hoped for something else, which was why I left Harley the message that I did.” He fixed Peter with a gentle but intense stare. “I knew that the only way to keep _you_ safe was if somebody else was looking out for you while you were looking out for the little guy. And Harley took care of me when nobody else would— _could._ So many times. And I hoped he could do the same for you. Plus, I didn’t want you saddled with SI on top of everything else. And…” He smirked in an infuriatingly self-satisfied way, “I hoped you’d look out for him, too. Of course, I didn’t think you’d be doing it quite so _thoroughly,_ but I’ll admit when Harley came out to me the thought _had_ crossed my mind.”

Peter shook his head in tolerant amusement. “You are just so fucking proud of yourself.”

“I am,” Tony laughed. “I _really am._ I’m such a good match-maker I could do it from the _grave._ It’s like I’m some sort of _god_.”

“Oh my god,” Peter muttered, rubbing his face with his hands as he breathed out a laugh.

“So—as much as it pains me—shifting topic away from me for a bit: how did the whole Iron Lad thing come into play?”

“Well, it wasn’t dramatic, _at all_.”

“Of course not.”

“So, I’d gone back to Queens with May and Happy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, I really want some waffles.


End file.
